Resurrection
by scifigrl47
Summary: Several months post Reichenbach Fall, John Watson finds himself back at 221B Baker Street, contemplating beginnings and ends.  Guns, grief, and belief should never be mixed with alcohol.  How far can he push the still hidden Sherlock?
1. Chapter 1

**Resurrection**, pt 1

Post Reichenbach Falls

Sherlock/John

NC-17, Eventually

Mrs. Hudson had locked the door.

It was such an alarming change in pattern that it took John Watson a few moments to realize what was going on. He stood on the darkened street, squinting at the battered knob and rattling the door in the frame. The thing had been kicked and forced open so often that he was surprised it would stay closed at all.

Still frowning at the doorknob, John sighed. Keys. Of course. He needed keys. He had keys. Fumbling at his pockets, starting with his coat pockets and moving inward to his suit jacket, pants and shirt pockets, he frowned. He didn't have keys.

He was usually faster on the uptake, but in his defense, he was rather immensely drunk right now. It was surprising that he could stay on his feet. Holding onto the doorknob helped, of course, and actually, he wasn't holding onto the doorknob anymore, was he?

That explained why he was sprawled on the damp pavement. He blinked at the sky. Faint ache in the back of his skull. He'd either hit it on the way down, or he was just starting the hangover portion of his evening a little earlier than anticipated.

Either way, he tipped his head to the side and found the keys lying in a puddle, mere inches from his hip.

"Lovely!" he said, to no one in particular. It took him a couple of tries to grab them, and he was absurdly proud of himself when he managed it.

Then it was the difficult and fumbling efforts to push himself up to the point where he could reach the doorknob. He was panting and dizzy when he found his knees, but he shoved the key into lock and got it to turn. "Success!" he crowed, as the door opened and he pitched face first into the vestibule.

"Not... Not so good." Taking a deep breath, he managed to inhale dust and the faint smell of chemicals, now so embedded in the carpet that they'd never come free. Unpleasant, but necessary, really, even Mrs. Hudson's careful cleaning couldn't cover the fact that the runner had been subjected to splashes of blood.

So much blood.

John's stomach rolled over and he fought his way back up to his feet, and stumbled forward into the wall and back, catching the door with his weight and shoving it closed. It slammed with enough force to send the sound reverberating down the silent, rain shrouded street. There was no reaction.

John was getting used to getting no reaction from anyone.

Mrs. Hudson's flat was dark and quiet; he'd heard that she was out of town with her sister. She still checked in with him, every couple of days she'd leave a cheerful message on his mobile. It didn't seem to bother her that he didn't pick up, and he didn't reply. She just kept at it, reliable as the tides.

221 Baker Street was silent and still, his footsteps making staccato echoes as he moved, shuffling and uneven, up the runner and up the stairs, the hall so familiar and yet so alien. He hadn't been drunk here often; that had been Sherlock's job.

The thought was so painful that he came to a stop, halfway up the stairs, wobbling, arms pitching out to grab at the walls. For an instant he hung, almost falling, before he thrust his weight forward again and crashed up the last few steps, into the door and into the flat. He sprawled out, cheek impacting with the carpet, and the burn was a relief, it was so good because it made the bloody alcoholic haze lift.

God, the wallpaper in here was horrific.

John stared at it, his nose almost up against the wall, cross-eyed, he stared. Waited for the wobbly pattern to be still again, and when it did stabilize, it wasn't much better.

He had to get away from the wallpaper.

To his feet, to his knees, back to his feet again, he had no control over his limbs, they flailed and fell, clipping bits of furniture and tangling with cords, the few bits and bobs that Mrs. Hudson had left intact, the few obstacles, he found them all. How was it, without the clutter, without the things, oh, God, so many things, so many things that Sherlock had filled their small space with, how could it be so much harder to move with the rooms empty?

He was standing, and it was so empty. John stood there, looking,even though he wasn't capable of seeing any longer. The room was empty. Everything was gone. He knew that the boxes lining the wall were filled with Sherlock's things, packed neatly away by Mrs. Hudson's careful hands, but it wasn't the things that created the emptiness.

It wasn't the lack of those things that made it empty. The lack was something more primal, more precise. It was like the flat had been alive, and now the emptiness was like the lack of a pulse on a still wrist. John's stomach rolled over, his fingers twitching, remembering, remembering the fading warmth of skin beneath his cold, shaking fingers. The lack of a heartbeat, in the man who'd publicly claimed to have had no heart at all.

Drunk, dumb, he stood there, senses straining. Listening for the faint,melancholy strains of the violin, the smell of tea brewing, the taste of chemicals in the air, the sight of a faint light in the kitchen. The feel of warmth. Any warmth. The warmth to chase away that memory of cooling skin and cold, wet blood beneath his feet, seeping into the knees of his trousers as he fell. The memory was alive, a gnawing sense of cold that wouldn't let him be.

Please, please God, was it too much to ask for any human warmth?

He'd been so cold. The summer had come, as much as summer could come for London, and even the air was stangnant with hot, thick moisture, he couldn't seem to get warm.

John took a stumbling step forward, his hand pressed to the wall, to keep himself upright and moving, and something ground beneath his heel. He looked down, the weight of his head tipping him forward. He pitched forward, coming up against the wall, and he slid down. Down. Down. So far down to his knees, and his hand fumbled on the carpet.

Merciless God, would he never be able to get off his knees?

His fingers were delicate as they retrieved the remains of one of Sherlock's collapsible magnifying lenses.

A tear flicked through the air, landing on his knuckle, and he struggled for a moment, trying to keep what was left of his control. But once begun, the tears refused to stop, and he collapsed back, his legs a tangle as they started in earnest. He brought his arm up, covering his eyes, hiding from someone, from everyone, even if there was no one there. For what felt like forever, he cried, silent and stuttering, his breath coming in raw gasps, pressing the inside of his arm against his skin, trying to trap the tears in his eyes, but they kept slipping out, faster and faster. His hands making fists, he couldn't bear the touch of his own tears, he couldn't bear to wipe them away, his own hands stained and so goddamn cold.

And he was sobbing, out loud now, breaking the silence with small, animalistic sounds of grief, horrible and empty. They echoed in the empty flat, in his head, in the nothing that surrounded him, and he curled up, going fetal with it, with the overwhelming sense of loss and guilt and grief.

The memories wouldn't stop. They played across the inside of his eyelids, every time he slept, or closed his eyes, or blinked. The flash there, the instant of no return, of black cloth wings that held no weight, fluttering as he fell, every element, every variable, everything in sharp focus, so sharp, the flicker of his heavy coat, trailing behind him, the weightless way he subsided through the air.

The horrific, unending sound his body made against the pavement. As final as a bell tolling for an ancient, half-forgotten death. The sound, John couldn't escape that sound, of cracking bone and sinew ripping, joints popping, he knew, he knew, he knew what the fall had done, he'd seen death, so much death, he knew how it could come, and he'd expected it, somehow, from the beginning.

A gunshot from a distance, a crazed killer leaping with a knife, a hint of poison slipped into a teatime biscuit, a bored hand reaching for another hit, one more than the body could sustain. All of the deaths he'd imagined for Sherlock, for himself, in the back of his blood soaked mind, had been violent.

And all of them had been unaviodable. He'd told himself there would be no time for reaction, nothing to do, no way to protect Sherlock, no way to reach out a hand, it would be over too quickly for him to do anything. A swift, senseless, violent death.

Not this. Not this agony of time, of recrimination spun out in his head, where John was forced to relive, to second guess, to retread every instant. Every word. Every gesture. Perhaps if he'd done something different, said something, made Sherlock understand, because there had to have been something he could've done, he'd had MINUTES. Unbearable, crippling minutes, and now John's life was shortened. Relived in minutes. Those minutes. It never stopped. Never paused. There was no relief.

He rolled, trying to right himself, and his coat hit the carpet with a leaden thump.

John fumbled at the pocket, at the heavy weight there. His Army pistol, recovered at last from where Lestrade had hidden it, under the pretext that John had been a material witness to a potential crime under investigation. Of course, no one thought that he'd shot Sherlock, but Lestrade had been acting in John's best interests at the time, so he hadn't complained.

He hadn't wanted the bloody thing about.

Now it was back in his possession, and he couldn't let it go. It'd become a lifeline, a safety net, a security blanket. Always there. Always. He clung to it, he checked it constantly, cleaned it over and over, always fumbling at his pocket to make sure it was still there.

Everyone needed an escape plan, after all.

John stared at the weapon, trying to force his eyes to focus. His breathing was still coming in ragged sobs, but his eyes were dry. He blinked, and the motion was slow, deliberate, and his heart seemed to slow, as if waiting for a similar order. Beat. Beat. Beat. It was as if he could control it, could stop it with a thought, with a force of will. He clutched at his chest, his fingers clawing at the jacket and shirt and everything else, and he choked on a sob.

After all, he could stop it, if he wanted.

As if in a dream, he brought the weapon up, the movement easy and swift and practiced, his muscles following habit, drilled into him over and over and over during his years in the Army. and practiced again, since Lestrade had placed it back into his hand.

He stared down at the barrel and he took a breath. Easier now. Calm. Relaxed. No fear. No pain. Just a moment of grace. The moment of truth. He kept his eyes on the gun, on the barrel, but his mind was calm now, his face still wet with tears, his eyes were clear. With care, he set it down in front of him and pulled out his mobile.

The text was simple, three words, sent to Lestrade because the one he'd wanted to reach was gone. Out of service, like as not, and in Mycroft's hands anyway. As Sherlock himself had said, he had to leave a note. It was just how these things were done. Unlike Sherlock's, John's was simple.

"I failed him."

He set the phone down, and reclaimed his gun. The mobile began vibrating. A text first, then a call notification. It went dark after a moment, then began buzzing again. And again. John didn't really notice.

He checked the pistol over, with clinical detachment. Taking a deep breath, his eyes falling closed, his wet lashes forming spiky stars against his cheeks, he raised the gun and set it beneath his chin.

A faint smile creased his worn features, and his finger squeezed the trigger.

"Don't." The word was unnecessary. The arms around him from behind, hard and heavy, taking ownership of the gun without giving John a moment to fight back, left no space for discussion. John'd raised the gun on an inhale, and before he could release the breath, it was gone, the cold weight away from his chin, out of his hands, ripped away.

The bullets rained to the carpet, the clip clattering to the floor, and the gun was thrown into the wall with unrestrained violence. It hit with a bang not unlike a gunshot, and John jerked back. There was nowhere to go, the solid wall of a body stopped him, and he fell back, back into a pair of arms that latched on with a bruising force.

It was a hug from someone unfamiliar with them.

"You bloody fucking bastard," John managed, even as he started to cry again. It was silent now, no grief, just cleansing, but his head fell back. The broad, muscular shoulder took the weight of his skull, and the arms tightened, tightened, squeezing bone and muscle and tissue, bruising skin and making breathing impossible.

"Don't," Sherlock said, his lips against John's ear, his breath hot there, and John realized Sherlock was shaking. Shaking violently, like a man in the midst of a malarial fit, his muscles jerking, his breathing ragged, Sherlock held onto John as if he was the only stable thing left in his world. "Don't you ever."

"You-" John kicked, struggled, pushing against the arms that manacled him, but it was no use, Sherlock had the advantage of size and strength and pure adrenaline. John flailed for an instant more, succeeding only in landing himself half in Sherlock's lap, their bodies tangled and the sound of their hard, sharp breathing combining into a strained duet. "You don't get to give me orders. You dead git. Bugger you. Bugger. You!" He screamed the last word and Sherlock jerked, his arms going slack.

John flipped his body, following the movement with a wild, haymaker punch that somehow connected with Sherlock's cheek. He wasn't sure how, but he suspected, as his friend crashed back to the floor, that Sherlock had moved into the blow. John scrambled, kicked, his knees ripping against the carpet, and, straddling Sherlock's hips, he grabbed him by the front of the shirt, yanking him back up into a sitting position.

Then he hit him again.

When Sherlock went down, John went with him, collapsing down, his head on Sherlock's chest, his face buried in the other man's shirt. Sherlock lay spread-eagled on the carpet, and John pressed his cheek against Sherlock's breast, finding the place where Sherlock's heart beat and resting his ear there, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other reaching up. Up to where Sherlock's pulse throbbed, in time with the steady, frantic beat of the heart beneath John's ear. Up the strong column of his neck, and John laid shaking fingers against his lips.

Sherlock, as if knowing what he needed, let his breath slide against John's fingers.

"I hate you, you bastard," John whispered against his shirt, and he felt Sherlock flinch, as if the words had caused a physical impact, one braced for but still painful.

"I know." Sherlock's voice was steady and calm, that hint of condescension and disdain that popped up when people around him got upset, got overwrought, and he was forced to deal with it.

John levered himself up, and regretted it in an instant as his cheek cooled and he felt the humiliating wetness there. "Do you. Do you really."

Sherlock stared up at him, unblinking, his remarkable, beautiful eyes steady. "Yes. I knew you would."

"And you did it anyway, you bloody selfish bastard." John's hands fisted in his shirt, a death grip that turned his knuckles white. "You made me watch you die. You-" His voice broke, his face twisted, and the agony of the memory was there; even as the real thing lay beneath him, whole and solid and warm, oh God, so warm, he couldn't forget it. The great black bird, wings clipped, plummeting down to break John's heart. "How could you do that? Did you ever-" He closed his eyes, lifting Sherlock off the floor, shaking him, and it felt good, so he did it again. "Did you ever even like me? Did I mean anything at all to you? Was I just another useful tool for you to dispatch when you couldn't be bothered to-"

John squeezed his eyes closed, his lips snapping shut, closed against the horrible truth that he'd never spoken, never considered speaking. He'd never doubted, not for an instant, that Sherlock Holmes was exactly the amazing, brilliant, quicksilver, broken and remarkable man that he'd known . He'd never doubted that. John had known his 'confession', made instants before he plunged to his death, was faked.

But he'd begun to wonder if their friendship was faked as well.

Beneath him, Sherlock was silent, and John laughed, the sound harsh. "Yeah. Okay, yeah." He raised a hand and scrubbed at his face, at his eyes, rubbing hard enough to remove any trace of tears. "Yeah. Got my answer, didn't I?" With a brutal shove, he pushed away from Sherlock. Drunk and still wobbly from a combination of relief and pain, it took him far too long to find his feet, and he spent most of the time trying not to cry.

Again.

He fumbled for the wall, and leaned against it for an instant, his arm braced, and his forehead on his arm. "Bugger you," he whispered. "I hate you. And yet I'm still so-" He broke off, his voice breaking. "So glad you're still alive. So- Fine."

He pushed away, and stumbled towards the door. His left leg stopped short, and his head jerked down. Sherlock's hand was fisted in the fabric of his trousers. His head down, he said something, too low for John to hear him. "What?" John asked, his brows pulling together.

"Don't leave me," Sherlock whispered. His fingers twitched, his knuckles white. "Hate me, if you have to. But don't leave me." The words were stretched thin, and he sounded like a terrified child, his shoulders heaving.

John paused, weaving on his feet. "Sherlock?"

"Don't leave me." His voice began to shake, and his other hand lashed out, grabbing John's wrist. "Don't. Don't, you can't, I can't-" His head jerked up, and his face was bone white, skin stretched over his skull like a bad mask and his eyes were pools of agony. "I can live with you hating me, I knew, I knew that would happen, but I can't-" His fingers tightened until the bones in John's wrist compressed. "Don't leave me."

John stared down at him, and his eyes slid shut. Slowly, carefully, he went down on one knee, the movement clumsy and awkward. Lowering the other, he shook off Sherlock's grip and reached out, drawing the taller man into his arms. For an instant, Sherlock fought against it, not seeming to understand what was happening.

"It's okay," John whispered. "It's okay. I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm not leaving. It's okay. I'm all right." He leaned forward until his forehead touched Sherlock's. "I'm all right. Whatever happened, why ever you did it, it's okay. I'm sorry. I'm not going to leave you."

Without thinking about it, he reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. "It's okay." Sherlock's skin was clammy and cold, and John leaned in, brushing a kiss on Sherlock's brow. "It's okay."

Sherlock collapsed against him with such suddenness that John rocked back, his shoulders hitting the wall. He held on, even as he absorbed Sherlock's weight, the sudden, limp, dead weight of him. Watson's breathing seized, panic suddenly returning in a rush. "No," he said, giving Sherlock a shake. "Stay with me."

John wrapped himself around Sherlock, letting the other man settle against him, Sherlock's breath hot on his neck. John relaxed, relieved by the familiar pattern of life. Gently, his hand fumbling, he stroked Sherlock's hair. "It's all right."

His mobile buzzed again, and he struggled for a moment with which hand to use. The left was closer, and it was better to keep his arm around Sherlock's trembling back. It took more effort than he'd thought it would to pull his hand from Sherlock's hair, and the man twitched, breathing hitching. "It's all right," John repeated again, his voice firm, the same tone he used with a frightened patient in pain. Or Sherlock when he was on a bender. "I just need to get my phone. Lestrade must be half mad by now."

He ran his right hand up Sherlock's back to rest against the nape of his neck. "It's all right," he said, the mantra soothing for them both. His free hand fumbled on the floor, locating his angry mobile just as it started buzzing again. "Sorry, Lestrade, drunk texting. I'm fine, really."

"'Course. Where are you, John?" Lestrade's voice, full of gravel and harsh at the edges, was clipped now, in full on copper mode.

"I'm fine," John repeated, stroking Sherlock's hair.

"Yah, 'course. Where are you?"

"I'm with a friend. I've just been drinking too much, you know how it is, drunk texts and all. I'm fine, I'm not alone."

There was a long pause, and John could almost imagine the detective inspector weighing his words. "Look, John, I've gotta ask this, because I-" He sighed. "I worry. Where's your gun?"

"My mate took it off me. We had a bit of a row, truth be told. I doubt I'll be getting it back any time soon."

Another pause. "And you say he's not drinking?"

"Not a drop, Lestrade."

He gave an affirmative grunt. "Yeah. Good." John could hear the thump of fingers on Lestrade's desk, rolling and steady. "I haven't many friends, John, and I can't risk losing another one. So if I think, for even one second, that you're not safe tonight, I'd prefer to come round to get you, ya understand, right?"

"Yes. Thank you." Sherlock's breathing was slowing against John's shoulder, and John rubbed his nape. "Really, Greg. I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "I'm safe."

"Yeah. Don't panic me, my heart doesn't need the stress." Lestrade's voice took on an edge. "Don't think I won't track your mobile signal and send a car for you, you idiot. Even if not for my own sake, if anything happens to you, I'm the one left explaining things to Mycroft Holmes, and he gives me the shakes."

"You and everyone else in the commonwealth." John shifted his body, finding a more comfortable position. Sherlock shifted with him, and for some reason, there was nothing alien about the pressure of his body against John's. John rubbed his neck, strong fingers massaging his skin. "I'm fine. I'm safe, I'm sorry I spooked you."

Lestrade gave a humming sound of assent. "Yeah. John? Call me tomorrow morning,won't you?"

"'Course. Thanks, Greg."

"What for?"

"For caring and ringing back."

His only reply was a snort. "Yeah. Lay off the pints and get to bed."

"Good night." John disconnected the call and set his mobile down. He moved his hand to Sherlock's back. "You left me," he said, at last, his cheek resting against Sherlock's hair. "That's what I don't understand. "You left me. You... You faked your own death, and don't think I've forgotten that, how the hell-" He stopped, cleared his throat. "You know what, I cannot worry about that now, about the how. But you left me. You were the one who walked out, so I'm not certain why you have the gall to-" He sighed. "You left me."

Sherlock burrowed his face into John's shoulder, his silence eloquent.

John gritted his teeth. "Oh, of all the times for you to lose your tongue. All right, then, since the great and omniscient Sherlock Holmes won't give us his deduction, the world must then fall back to my poor skills." He took a deep breath, eyes closing.

"You timed your 'suicide' for when you had a witness. Me." Without thinking about it, John's voice took on the staccato, frustrated tone that Holmes employed while lecturing on his deductions. "You needed me there. You made certain I was witness to the whole thing, and that was cruel." He cleared his throat, it felt too tight. "Unaccountably cruel, you're often socially inept and clumsy, but you're never deliberate in your cruelty, unless you're responding in kind to some slight. Childish, but understandable.

"I, however, had offered you no offence, so you had some other reason to do it. Moreover, you lied to me. Deliberately, purposefully, you lied, encouraging me to believe in Moriarty's faerie tale. An act of penance from someone we both know is incapable of feeling guilt, so even if I were to believe it, it would always ring false. So you did that for some reason as well.

"So the question is why. Why would you want me to be certain you were dead, and also hate you for it?" Against his chest, Sherlock was still and quiet. Frustrated, Watson grabbed his chin and forced it up, forced Sherlock to meet his eyes. "Because you wanted me to believe that you were dead, and give up on you. You wanted me to leave Baker St, leave my blog, leave everything we shared."

No reaction. John stared at him, eyes darting, trying to find something, anything, to go on. "You wanted me to leave you. You did everything in your power to assure that. Except now, it's clear that's not what you wanted. If you didn't want it, and you did it anyway, then it was something you needed. You... Needed me to go. You-"

His eyes narrowed. "You had to cut ties. You HAD to. Not for your sake, obviously, then for... For mine." He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing with a sigh. "You're a great idiot, you know that. Moriarty. Of course. Moriarty. He used me against you. Again. I'm the bloody damsel in distress."

"Not just you." Sherlock's voice was gritty, strained. "All of you."

"All of us?" John frowned. "Me, Mrs. Hudson... Not Mycroft?" he asked, but it wasn't a question. In reply, he only got a disdainful glance. "Quite right. Not Mycroft. Then-" His eyes went wide. "Lestrade. Your other booster. He threatened us."

"Yes."

"So you had to die. And you had to make sure we didn't come looking."

"Yes," Sherlock snarled out, his teeth white and sharp in his strained face. "Yes, dammit, and I pulled it off."

"No, you didn't."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John smirked at him. "I didn't believe you. It didn't make sense. I didn't believe you. I never believed you. But knowing something, and proving it, well, that's two different things, isn't it?

"So I set out to prove it." He grinned, and it was grim.

"It didn't take as much as I thought. A few carefully worded, but seeming off-hand comments to my therapist about eating my gun. A continuing withdrawal from everyone. An increase in drinking, going out in public without bothering to shower or shave. Wearing yesterday's clothes to the pub. Skipping therapy appointments. That time I punched Mycroft, though that was mostly for me. Carrying my gun everywhere. Public outbursts.

"I knew where ever you were, you were watching. You were watching, and interpreting. Watching and worrying."

Sherlock's eyes were wide, and if catching himself, he snapped his brows down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't. You were watching. If you didn't care what happened to me, you wouldn't have bothered lying. You would've used me as a witness, and you would've-" His voice broke. "Done what you did. So you cared. You're obsessive. Protective. I know you."

"You-"

"I know you!" It was a roar, a sound that John didn't even know that he was capable was making. "I know you better than any person, living or dead, on this Earth! I knew just what to do to pull you in, how to manipulate you. Feed you hints. Siphon out the information. Toss breadcrumbs in your path. You took the whole thing hook. Line. And sinker."

Sherlock was scowling at him now, his face looking much like a child's. "I knew you wouldn't. Not here."

"Wouldn't what. Let's put a name to it, Sherlock, you did it yourself, so there's no point in being subtle about it. You didn't think I'd commit suicide here in the flat."

"I knew you wouldn't. You wouldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson."

"You couldn't be sure." John gave him a smirk. "You say you knew. You may have even told yourself that you knew, but in the end, you couldn't take the chance. You followed me here."

"I beat you here."

"You knew I was coming here. And you had a choice: trust in your intellectual certainty, or make absolutely certain that I didn't kill myself. You had to chose, and you erred on the fact that you might be wrong." He grinned, and it was wobbly. "I'm more important to you than being right."

Sherlock stared at him, his face perplexed. "Well, of course."

"What?" John blinked at him. "Wait, what?"

"Of course you are."

John struggled against the dual impulses to burst into laughter and tears. Perhaps at once. "This must be what going mad feels like," he said. "I expected this. From the moment you said, 'Iraq or Afghanistan?' I knew you'd drive me right mad. You say things, you say blasted crazy things without a blink, like you're lighting a fuse on a stick of dynamite, and then you wander off, without even letting the rest of us know we're about to die." He gritted his teeth. "I hate-"

Holmes moved so fast that John didn't even have a chance to react, lunging up, his mouth closing on John's, swallowing the words before they could be spoken, and John promptly forgot what he was saying in any case. For an instant, he just sat there, stunned, Sherlock's lips against his, the kiss desperate and tentative and awkward. Sherlock's hands squeezed his shoulders, his fingers biting into John's skin, holding him still.

Not that John could've figured out how to go anywhere, or even figured out if he wanted to.

He should want to. Shouldn't he? This was wrong, this wasn't what he wanted, this wasn't something he'd ever considered, this was his best friend, his up until recently dead best friend, and his tongue was in John's mouth. Wait, how had- He heard a groan and realized he'd made it, his body responding rapidly to the heat of Sherlock's mouth, and wasn't that messed up? He should stop this. Get up. Walk away. Instead, John tilted his head, and deepened the kiss, his lips parting even wider, his hands grabbing onto Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's hand slid down his chest, his stomach, finding that hard line of John's erection, and the touch was enough to clear the drunken haze of pleasure and booze from his mind.

John jerked his mouth free of Sherlock's, his head spinning, and nearly brained himself when his skull bounced off the wall. "Shit! Ah, ah, wait, what- What's-"

Sherlock grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward again, his clever hands sliding under John's jacket and pushing it back, off his shoulders, down his arms. John couldn't manage more than token resistance, trying to push Sherlock's chest away, but it was like trying to shove a brick wall. "Sherlock-" he managed, as Holmes grabbed his shirt and yanked, sending buttons flying. "Jesus! Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock said, his voice steady and calm. He grabbed hold of John's belt and flicked the buckle open.

"What do you mean, what? What're you DOING?" John grabbed his wrists, panting hard. "Jesus, we can't do this, I mean, we're in the middle of the bloody living room, what're you thinking?"

"Quite right." Sherlock pushed back, and John was left propped against the wall, naked to the waist, pants half open, struggling to breathe. And not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "Bed, then," Sherlock continued, reaching down and pulling John to his feet.

"Bed? No, no, wait-" John stumbled, clumsy and fumbling, and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist, taking most of his weight and half-walking, half-shoving him towards his bedroom. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock heaved him off of his feet and onto the wide bed. John hit it and bounced, his scattered mind taking in the fact that the sheets and bedding were still there, apparently this was the one thing Mrs. Hudson couldn't bear to take care of. It was still the same tumble of soft sheets and thick down comforter that had always been there, and as John lay there, trying to collect his thoughts, he realized it still smelled like Sherlock.

Jesus Christ, when had he learned what Sherlock smelled like? He needed to get up. Now.

He struggled into a sitting position, only to stop, stunned, at the sight of Sherlock stripping. His shirt was tossed first, then his shoes kicked off, then he stripped his pants off his narrow hips, leaving him clad only in pale blue boxers. John gaped at him, intellectually taking in the width of his shoulders, the broad, muscular lines of his chest, the narrow, flat expanse of his stomach and the way the boxers slid down to cling to his slim hips.

Also, that he had an outtie belly button.

That small touch of humanity was enough to break the stillness, and John rolled towards the edge of the bed. "Okay, we're not doing this," he managed, averting his gaze away from Sherlock, not really sure how the whole situation made him feel. His body wasn't nearly so missish, aroused to the point of pain.

Sherlock grabbed his leg and pulled off one of John's shoes. "Why not?" he asked, logical about it. John's loafer hit the ground, and Sherlock reached for the other one.

"Well, for starters, I'm not gay!" Saying it aloud had absolutely no effect on his raging erection, or the way that his eyes seemed determined to linger on the broad line of Sherlock's shoulders as he leaned over to grab at John's foot. The familiar, tousselled hair and the dark brows, drawn low in determination made John's chest ache, and when Sherlock's sea-storm eyes shot up to meet his, John braced himself for what would be the easiest put down in Sherlock's career as a consulting detective.

It didn't take a genius to spot the indications that John's body was more than willing to indulge in some decidedly gay activities. John's chin jerked up. "I'm not gay," he repeated, more out of pride than anything else.

Sherlock's head tipped to the side. "Neither am I," he said, and he returned to yanking on John's sock.

John's mouth fell open. "Well, you bloody well could've fooled me," he snapped.

"I'm not gay," Sherlock said, with his usual combination of condescending irritation. "I'm not sexually attracted to men. I just love you."

John stared at him, stunned. "What?" he whispered.

Sherlock's head came up, his face set in a petulant frown. "I love you. That's it. That's all. At this point, I wouldn't care if you were male, female, or a hermaphodite. I want you. Because you're you." He reached up and yanked John's belt free. "I love you."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to ask him if he had any concept of what love was, but before he could, Sherlock looked up, just for an instant, quicksilver eyes flashing beneath beetled brows. And it was all there, the vulnerability, the helplessness, the fear. All of it, in a quick, sideways glance, as if Sherlock couldn't bear to hold his gaze.

"Sherlock-"

"You don't have to love me back. I know, you hate me. I-" Sherlock's mouth twisted in a grotesque parady of a smile. "As long as you stay, as long as you-" He swallowed, and his throat bobbed. "Don't leave. Hate me. I can deal with that. I'm not particularly loveable, in any case, I wasn't expecting-"

The rage was hot and sudden and overwhelming, and John grabbed his shoulders, yanking him down, catching Sherlock off guard so he stumbled, falling foward onto the bed. John stopped Sherlock's words with his mouth, an open mouthed kiss, hotter than any he'd ever participated in. His whole life had passed, untold numbers of dates and girlfriends, and all of them were forgotten as he kissed this man.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes suddenly felt right.

When he wrenched his mouth away, he was dizzy and panting for breath. "Don't you ever say that again," he snapped out, his fingers digging deep into Sherlock's shoulders. "Not ever. There is nothing wrong with you, you are perfectly loveable, and anyone and everyone that's convinced you differently can rot in hell."

Sherlock stared at him, looking absurdly vulnerable. John cupped his face between his palms. "Look at me. You are perfectly-" His teeth clicked together. "I love you."

In his palms, Sherlock jerked back, trying to pull away, and John held on. "Don't lie to me," Sherlock snapped, but his eyes were flicking, taking everything in, weighing the evidence, gathering information. "I can't bear it."

"Some master detective you are." John rolled his eyes. "Fine." He reached out, and his face flushing bright red, he pressed a palm to the flat, muscular plane of Sherlock's stomach, his fingers trailing down, feeling the thick muscles tighten against his fingers. This should not have felt so familiar, so right, and yet it did, as he found the heavy weight of Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, his breath leaving in a pained hiss. "Don't."

"Oh, now you're shy? Jesus, Sherlock." John flexed his fingers, knowing just how much pressure to exert, even if he couldn't stroke his palm against the impressive length.

Sherlock's eyes fell shut, his lips parting as he sucked in desperate breaths. His high cheekbones were flushed, his shoulders jerking with the force of his breathing. "I didn't-" He groaned as John cut him off mid-word, fingers tightening.

"I did," John said, chuckling. "I've found a way to stymie you. Excellent."

"Shut. Up," Sherlock choked out.

"Make me," John shot back with a sweet smile.

The instant Sherlock's eyes met his, John realized he'd made a mistake. He opened his mouth, trying to mitigate the damage, but it was too late. Sherlock's lips curled up in a tight, pressurized smile, and John tried to back up, but there was no where to go. "Now, Sherlock, you-"

Sherlock lunged, and John went down beneath him, their lips sealed together, Sherlock's heavy body pressing him down into the bedding. John felt his hands at the waistband of his trousers, and without thinking, lifted his hips so Sherlock could work them down, over his hips. John's hands slid up Sherlock's back, feeling the muscles flex there, beneath his trained fingers.

The kiss just kept going, their lips almost grinding together, their bodies straining. John was aware, on some level, that his pants were unfastened, halfway down his hips, and wasn't surprised when Sherlock ripped his mouth away, leaving John fumbling for breath. "God, Jesus, Sherlock-" he managed, his head falling back.

"Right," Sherlock said, the word clipped and precise, and then his mouth was on John's throat, hot and wet and strong. John groaned as Sherlock's mouth brushed against his right nipple, his tongue finding the sharp point. Sherlock lingered for an instant, his tongue flicking against John's flesh, eyes narrowed, fingers stroking over the planes of his breast and ribs, finding every point of sensation.

This, John realized, this was the danger. This was the extreme danger in letting Sherlock Holmes play. He was a man who could discover your weakness before you finished brushing your teeth, and being naked in front of him, literally naked and needy, was a recipe for disaster. Every hitch in breathing, every twitch of a muscle, every minute change in skin tempature, he would be aware of it all, cataloging, inventorying, learning, finding just the way to manipulate, to twist, to wrench every last bit of reaction from his lover.

Sherlock had once said that Mycroft was the most dangerous man John would ever meet; he'd certainly had the right family.

Holmes licked the sensitive skin just below John's belly button, and John arched off the bed with a cry. "Ah, I see," Sherlock said, and John could feel his smile against that baby-fine skin.

"Yes, yes, you win, let me up now-" John was babbling, his fingers digging into the white sheets. "Sherlock, I'm serious-"

"Shut up now," Sherlock said, and his hot mouth closed over John's heavy erection.

"Oh, God," John managed, before he forgot anything remotely resembling English.

Perhaps he'd misunderstood the purpose of foreplay before. It had all seemed like a lovely, unbroken string of pleasure, human contact and warmth, skin and touch and heat. Almost pleasant. There was nothing at all pleasant about sex with Sherlock. Up until now, it had been confusing, intense, an overwhelming, almost brutal pleasure.

Actual sex just might kill him.

Half propped up on the pillows, his hands scrambling, grabbing, nails ripping at the bedding, John struggled to breathe. The angle gave him a perfect view of what Sherlock was doing, his jaw stretched wide, his brilliant, beautiful eyes locked on John's the entire time. He altered the pressure, sucking and rolling his tongue, and John's hips arched up, hard and uncontrolled. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John had the distinct impression that he was smiling, smugly pleased with himself.

Then he set himself to the task of driving John insane.

It wasn't long before the grip on the sheets wasn't enough for John, and he made a fumbling grab for Sherlock's head, his fingers sinking deep into the dark curls. "Ah," he managed, as his fingers tightened, and Sherlock stared up at him, long, dark lashes barely moving as he monitored John's face.

Then his eyes flickered shut, as if he'd gathered all the data he needed for a solution, and John knew he was in trouble.

Sherlock pressed a hand flat on John's stomach, holding him down as his mouth slid over John's erection. With a hard, suctioning pressure, Sherlock deep throated him.

John came on a howl that would've been embarrassing if he'd been capable of feeling embarrassment. As he twisted under Holmes, his body jerking with the force of it, he couldn't do anything but struggle to breathe. When he finally collapsed back against the sheets, his body limp and skin damp, he was grateful his heart was still in working condition.

Of course, it stuttered to a stop as Sherlock sat up, eyes on Watson, and drew an index finger across his swollen lower lip, the sticky residue clinging to his finger. Sherlock licked it clean with a flick of his tongue, and John groaned, the sound wrenched out of him. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock arched his eyebrows, his own shoulders heaving with the force of his breath. "Interesting," he said at last. He licked his lips. "Almost..." He swallowed, his high cheekbones flushed. "Very interesting."

"That's one way of putting it." John's head fell back, into the pillows. "Jesus H. Christ." He heard Sherlock chuckle, a smug little sound, and he managed, with a force of will, to roll over. "You bloody smug bastard," he said, snagging Sherlock by the back of his neck and pulling him down. Their lips met, and he taste his own essence on Sherlock's lips, on his tongue. It was stunningly intimate, and he groaned. The sound was caught and magnified by Sherlock, and John relaxed, just a bit.

It wasn't one sided. He could make Sherlock scream, too.

Keeping up the pressure of the kiss, John slid a hand down Sherlock's stomach. His fingers slid under the waistband of Sherlock's boxers, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist. John pulled away, breathing hard. "Turnabout's fair play," he said, with a lopsided smile.

Sherlock studied him, eyes narrowing. "You don't have to," he said, leaning in for another kiss.

Watson stared at him, right up until their mouths met again. He didn't need to. Sherlock would make this one sided, if John let him. For some reason, the thought was incredibly depressing. And what was it that Sherlock had said? That it was okay, because it was him.

Somehow, he realized, that was true. He wasn't interested in men, but Sherlock, Sherlock was a constant source of fascination. For an instant, he considered what had happened, what could happen, and his body reacted predictably. John's eyes slid shut. "I love you," he said, the words hot against Sherlock's mouth. "I do. But I didn't really, I mean, I didn't think about that. Acknowledge it. Not until just now, just when you reappeared, so give me some time."

Sherlock pulled back, just far enough to meet John's eyes. "As long as you'd like," he said, calm and placid despite the pressure of his breathing.

"All right then. We'll start with this." Leaning in, John kissed him again, even as he pushed Sherlock back to the bed, his hand closing on Sherlock's erection. Concentrating on the taste of Sherlock's mouth, the heat and pressure and rapidly growing sense of familiarity, he stroked Sherlock's erection, feeling him arch into his hand.

Sherlock's hands slid up his back, his fingers digging into John's skin, his grip almost painful. Moaning into John's mouth, he came hard. John kept stroking, his mouth teasing Sherlock's. When Sherlock finally subsided, his breathing ragged and uneven, John collapsed beside him.

This might take the cake as the weirdest night of his life. How strange that felt so right.

"Have you ever, um, done that before? I mean, what you did before?" John cleared his throat as he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"What, the blow job? No." Sherlock was breathing hard, his head thrown back.

"Then, how-"

"The internet."

John started to giggle. "You looked up how to give a-" He was laughing too hard to get the words out. "On the internet."

"Cosmo alone was a wealth of information." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. "I was good at it."

John nodded. "Yes. Yes, you were." Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, and yawned, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

John might've fallen asleep. He wasn't sure, but when he next managed to pry his heavy eyelids open, he found himself beneath the blankets, with Sherlock's warm body curled against his from behind. One thick leg nudged at the back of John's knees, one muscular arm was thrown around his waist. It should've felt strange, alien, but somehow, it didn't.

For the first time in months, John was warm. Well, he thought to himself, it would be helpful in the winter; Sherlock's body radiated heat like a barely banked fire. It should be uncomfortable now, in early summer, but the night was cool and his skin was still damp, and God, it felt good to snuggle back into that heat.

Sherlock nuzzled his head, and John frowned. "Are you sniffing my hair?"

"Yes."

That made him laugh. "Don't. That's odd."

"It's not odd, it's deduction."

"Ah, I see. And what do you deduce from the scent of my hair?"

"You need a bath."

John snapped his elbow back, gratified when he connected enough to shock a yelp from Sherlock. "Remember our discussions about when being helpful crosses that invisible line to rude?"

"It'd be a lot easier to determine when that is if the bloody line wasn't invisible," Sherlock grumbled.

"Here's a hint. If the other person is naked and lying in bed with you, criticisms are usually not going to be well received. It's a vulnerability issue."

Sherlock pondered that, and John felt him nuzzle at his hair again. His cheeks flushed, but he let the blasted man do it.

"So what do I say?" Sherlock asked at last.

"Offering a cool shower for two usually has the same effect without resulting in your lover slamming the door on the way out of the room. Or out of the flat, if you're particularly unlucky. A kind word about their presence in your bed is also usually well received." John yawned.

"It's just, the smell is-"

"Fine! Bloody hell!" John kicked at the blankets, wiggling out of Sherlock's grip.

Sherlock grabbed him and dragged him back. "No," he said, ignoring John's struggles. "You're right, having you leave is singularly unpleasant." He buried his face in John's neck. "Stay there."

His hair brushed John's cheek, and he smiled. "Don't order your lover around, either, it's tacky. Unless everyone is into that sort of thing."

He felt, and heard, Holmes yawn. "I don't need generic lover advice," he pointed out, sounding sleepy. "Just you."

"Well, then, fine, you can try ordering me about all you'd like, you do anyway."

"You seldom do what I tell you to, though."

"You catch on rather slow for a genius." John snuggled back into Holmes' heat.

"It's not my fault that you're deliberately obtuse." For a long moment, Holmes was silent. His breathing steadied, and John relaxed, thinking he'd fallen asleep. He closed his eyes and relaxed, waiting for sleep. He was exhausted enough, mentally and physically.

"John?

"Mmm?"

"You would've done it."

It wasn't a question, but John sighed. "Don't be stupid. I wouldn't, not here." He winced. "I wouldn't've, period."

"Yes, you would. You took every precaution, after all. Made sure that Mrs. Hudson wasn't around, texted Lestrade with a message intended to set off alarm bells, left your mobile on so the signal could be traced. Even if he couldn't get an exact fix, he'd get the general vicinity, and he'd spot Baker street in the radius. He'd make straight for this place, and have your body out before even ringing Mrs. Hudson to let her know."

John was still. "You're imagining things again, Sherlock." He closed his eyes. "Good night."

"You were that sure I was alive."

Sighing, John shifted, and felt Sherlock's arm tighten. "Every time since I've met you," he said at last, "You've always shown up when there was a gun pointed at me. Every bloody time. You..." He paused, swallowed. "You always save me. Even if I can't save you. So if I was stupid enough to actually be considering pulling the trigger, and I'm not saying I was, well, then, it stands to reason you'd save me from myself, doesn't it?"

"John-"

"Good night, Sherlock," John said, his voice firm. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock sighed against his hair. "I love you. Don't ever do anything that stupid or pointless again."

"Again with the orders."

"I'm not joking."

John rolled over, meeting his eye. "I'll make you a deal. I'll never kill myself, if you promise the same."

Sherlock studied him, and leaned in for a kiss. "Agreed."

"Good. Now shut up and go to sleep." John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. He paused, feeling the heat of Sherlock's skin against his cheek. "Sherlock?"

There was no reply, and he raised his head. "Sherlock?"

"I was told to go to sleep," Sherlock grumbled.

John couldn't hold back a smile, but it died quickly. "Will you still be here in the morning, or am I to get used to waking up alone?" The perils of sleeping with a dead man were suddenly plain to him. A shiver traced its way over his body.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing. "I had a bad night," Sherlock said at last. "About a month ago, maybe a bit more." The words were offhand, but it carried the hint of a lie. John would've bet a month's pension that Sherlock knew the precise date, the precise number of days that had passed since then. "A very bad night. And I woke up, and you weren't there."

The silence descended again, and John rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew how many things 'a bad night' could be code for, and none of them were good. "I'm sorry," he said, even though his absence had been none of his choosing.

"Yes, well, It wasn't pleasant. I've grown accustomed to your presence," Sherlock said, sounding very petulant. "I don't wish to live with that inconvenience any longer." His fingers stroked up John's back, the touch soothing and hesitant, as if he was still trying to figure out what was and wasn't acceptable. When John didn't object, the repeated the gesture.

He had always been a quick learner, if he was interested in the subject.

"Coming back from the dead, then?" John asked, his own hand resting on the narrow width of Holmes' waist.

"It's about time. Mycroft will be put out, but I find I don't much care."

"Mycroft knew. Of course, Mycroft knew." John's teeth gritted. "Now I'm all the happier that I took a shot at him when I had the chance." It had been an excellent punch, almost scientific in the force and accuracy, breaking Mycroft's nose with a single blow. There had been a lot of blood before John was dragged away by the secret service.

It had still been totally worth it.

Sherlock chuckled, and it was a very sweet sound. "I did appreciate that. You might well be the only person on Earth to get away with that, by the way."

"You could."

"Well, of course I could. But I didn't need to. You did it for me." Sherlock yawned, and it vibrated through his whole body. "Was it really necessary to do at the funeral, though?"

"When else was I going to get the chance? Besides, I get the excuse of extreme grief," John said, grinning. "And the knowledge that there was no possible way he'd punch back. Or let his jackbooted thugs take me out behind the church. Beating a fellow in a churchyard is so uncouth, you know."

"True. Of course, now you've punched both the Holmes boys. I so look forward to you meeting our father."

John's eyes shot open. "Wait, your father?"

"Too late, good night."

John sat up. "Your father is still alive? Wait, you-"

Sherlock had his eyes closed. "Good night, John," he said, smiling.

Staring down at him in the dim light, John felt his head throb. "You," he said at last, "are impossible."

His only response was a faint, clearly faked snore, and John snagged his pillow and gave him a sold thwack with it. "Bloody hell," he said, slumping back down.

Sherlock dragged him back up against his body, ignoring John's struggles. "Good night, John."

John shook his head. "Good night, Sherlock." He paused. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"As am I."


	2. Chapter 2

**Resurrection**, pt 2

Post Reichenbach Falls

Sherlock/John

NC-17, Eventually

Disclaimer: Rights to Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and the respective owners.

"I'm honestly surprised this took so long."

John Watson's eyes snapped open, years of military training kicking in with a vengeance. Fully alert and aware, he took stock of the situation. His head was pounding and there was a sour, sharp taste in the back of his throat that burned a path down to his stomach, the clear after affect of too much alcohol. There was a solid, heavy warmth against his back, a masculine, muscular arm around his waist, the flutter of deep, even breathing that stirred his hair. There was a tidy, well-dressed man sitting in an unfamiliar chair next to the bed, flipping through a palm sized notebook.

Okay, he thought through the boozy cobwebs. Quick recap. He'd gotten brutally drunk, considered suicide, slept with his best friend, his male best friend, his up untill last night presumed dead male best friend, and now he was waking up to find himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

With a force of will, John managed not to scream. Or vomit. He shifted, trying to adjust a very sore shoulder, and both impulses took on a new, very real intensity.

A couple of deep breaths through gritted teeth, and his stomach reluctantly retreated back where it belonged, although the curdled, acidic bite of heartburn continued. Focusing on the most immediate issue, John twisted his neck to look back over his shoulder. Behind him, Sherlock Holmes was still asleep, his features slack, his long black lashes making dark half-circles on his high cheekbones, his lips parted just a bit. His left cheek was bruised, the corner of his eye showing the start of a very nice black eye. John winced, feeling a little guilty about that, and feeling even more guilty that he didn't feel more guilty.

Bastard had deserved that one.

But the bruises hadn't kept him from sleeping like a child, all loose limbs and a faint sweet smile. As John watched, he shifted, just a bit, burying his face in his pillow, his right arm stretched out beneath John's head. He mumbled something and cuddled closer. Against his will, John's heart did a quiet, dignified flip-flop in his chest.

"John-"

John held up his hand, stilling Mycroft. He pointed to the door and Mycroft gave him a look. John returned the look in kind, a tight smile and steely glance making it clear that this wasn't one fight that Mycroft was going to win, and if he woke Sherlock there was going to be hell to pay. He pointed again, and Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh before he flicked his notebook shut and stood. Dusting a non-existant piece of lint from his lapel, he tucked the notebook into an inner coat pocket before he headed for the bedroom door, umbrella hooked over his forearm.

Only vaguely aware of Mycroft stepping out of the room and pulling the door shut with a muffled click, John turned his full attention to Sherlock. It took him a moment to slip free from Sherlock's grip, taking care not to wake him. Once he was seated on the edge of the bed, he picked up Sherlock's outthrust left arm, turning it palm up. With careful fingers, he traced the skin on the inside of the elbow, the wrist. He paused to take the pulse that beat there at Sherlock's wrist, and leaned over the other man, using the early morning light to study the skin around Sherlock's mouth, his nose, his eyes. With one careful finger, he nudged Sherlock's lip up, checking his gums and teeth.

With a faint sigh, he sat back, satisfied. About to stand, John paused, pushing Sherlock's hair back away from his forehead. Without thinking, he leaned over and brushed a kiss across Sherlock's brow, smiling a bit as he sat back. Amazing how much a life could change in one day. Or one night, to be more precise.

It took him a moment to find his pants, and he stepped into them without bothering with underwear or socks. His shirt, of course, wasn't in here, and it wasn't in wearable condition, even if it was. He felt his cheeks heat as he remembered the buttons bouncing in all directions. He'd always assumed the phrase 'tearing each others clothes off' was an exaggeration, but it seemed it was possible. More than that, probable.

Left with no real choice in the matter, John started for the door, then paused halfway there. Turning back, he drew the blanket up over Sherlock's shoulders, the gesture affectionate and protective. Leaning over, he couldn't resist tracing his fingers across Sherlock's throat, checking the pulse there. Steady and strong. Amazingly so, for a dead man.

He wondered how long it was before he could believe it enough to stop taking Sherlock's pulse.

Chuckling under his breath, John crossed the bedroom and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him with a faint click. Mycroft was seated in John's usual chair, a deliberate act, no doubt, but John didn't really care all that much. There was a cardboard carrier on the end table, with two paper cups still in it. Mycroft was sipping his own, and he waved a hand at the other two without even looking up from his notebook. John crossed to the table and picked up the nearest cup, not surprised to see that Mycroft, or one of his dozens of assistants, knew just how John took his coffee.

"Poisoned?" he asked, his lips quirking as he took a seat on the sofa. That earned him a chiding look from Mycroft, and he shrugged. "I'm never sure what your intent is, Mycroft."

"I must admit, the thought crossed my mind during the long healing process." Mycroft tapped a finger to the bridge of his nose. He'd gotten through the injury without any obvious damage. John was a little disappointed. "However, it didn't seem worth the trouble." He paused, his own cup hovering by his lips. "Or the repercussions."

John gave a faint chuckle, slumping backwards to take a sip of the coffee. It was excellent, and still hot, and he wrapped his hands around the paper cup, savoring the heat. A quick glance at the window made him suspect the day would be clear and warm, but for right now, it was still early. And he was only wearing his trousers.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" John said, his voice quiet. "It's not that I'm not always pleased to see you, but I have a headache."

"You have a hangover." Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"Also true."

"Your drinking has been-"

John choked on a laugh and a mouthful of coffee. "Oh, no. No, no, no. You do not get to pass judgement on me."

"I'm sensing some animosity, John."

"It's remarkable how the two of you are able to make these intellectual leaps based on tiny hints, hints like me saying, fuck off, Mycroft."

"You're still angry," Mycroft said, his voice resigned.

"I'm not the best brother out there," John said, studying his coffee cup lid as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "Harry and I haven't exactly been best mates. But I do know that if a known psychopath and possible mass murderer started asking pointed questions about her, I'd take that as a reason to introduce him to my Browning. It certainly wouldn't be a time for tea, biscuits and a pleasant chat about childhood pets." He took a sip of his coffee. "But then again, we're very different people, you and I."

"Indeed," Mycroft said, without a flicker of expression on his face.

"I'm just curious," John said, voice tight. "At any point during your little meetings, did you question the fact that you were feeding your own flesh and blood, your only sibling, to a man determined to flay him alive? Did this... Bother you in the least? The knowledge that the best outcome that was possible was that Moriarty would just kill him? You served him up on a silver platter, drove him to his death, and then had the bloody gall to show up at the funeral looking vaguely annoyed with the proceedings. I have a gun; you're lucky all I did was break your nose."

Mycroft glanced at him, as if they'd met during a particularly boring dinner event. "It wasn't my idea to be there."

John chuckled, the sound harsh and humorless. "Ah. Did Sherlock demand his pound of flesh that early in his afterlife?"

"He is remarkable in his ability to make my life unpleasant."

John gave him a mock toast. "Another reason for me to admire him." He stood. "I repeat, why are you here, Mycroft?"

"Because this-" Mycroft waved a laconic hand at the flat. "Complicates things."

John glanced around, and yes, this was a complication. His shirt, wadded up against the wall. His empty pistol, surrounded by bullets and buttons. The chaos he'd created in his drunken stumblings. And he, himself, standing there in just his trousers, bare foot and bare chested. Not to mention Sherlock, still asleep in bed, bare from the neck down.

"I don't see how," John said, his voice soft. "I would've died for him before this, so there's not much change."

"Sex changes everything," Mycroft said, his voice silken.

"No. It really doesn't. Unless you're particularly shallow." John headed for the kitchen, hoping against hope that the asprin bottle would still be on top of the fridge. "It just makes certain things more noticeable."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that he's lost at least two stone in the past few months, and he hasn't got it to lose. Also the fact that he's still asleep, that neither you coming or going, or me going stirred him. He pops awake at all hours normally, and the sound of the fridge door cracking'll usually have him appearing in an instant." John gave up his quest for painkillers and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. "How bad has he been, and has he been on anything?"

"I wouldn't know." Mycroft reached for his attache case and flipped it open. Removing a small pill bottle, he offered it to John.

Pride was not as important as getting his head to stop throbbing. "Thank you. And you're lying. There's no way you wouldn't have had him under constant surveillance, no matter where he was holed up."

Mycroft handed him the bottle. "Agreed. That is, of course, if I'd known where he was at all."

"You're telling me you lost him." John shook three pills out and downed them with a swig of cooling coffee. "You. The man with access to every security camera in this hardwired country."

"Misplaced. On a temporary basis. From time to time." Mycroft took the bottle back from him and took a few for himself. "He is remarkably wily when he puts effort into it."

"How much effort did he put into it?" John asked, curious.

"A monumental effort, my dear Dr. Watson. Positively monstrous, in fact." Mycroft returned the bottle to his case and leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced. "He's been unpredictable. Mercurial." He paused. "Very, very angry."

"Being dead will do that to a bloke."

"Being unable to go home will do that to a... Bloke," Mycroft corrected. "And he's not the only one who's lost weight. You're looking a bit below your prime, yourself."

John folded his arms over his chest. "Grief'll do that. What's your excuse?"

"Wondering if and when my not-quite-dead brother would topple the British crown will do it as well."

"Oh, for pity's sake," John said, rolling his eyes. "And you accuse him of melodrama."

"He could."

"But he wouldn't."

Mycroft's lips tipped up, just a bit. "You've more faith in him than I."

"Well, that's obvious. I don't think he's going to topple the government, and you're reserving the possibility that he might. It's a rather large difference of opinion."

"He does... Inconsistent things when he's bored." Mycroft tapped his right index finger on the arm of the chair. A small tic, from anyone else. A huge show of nerves from Mycroft.

"He wants to be useful, occupied. He's not destructive by nature," John said, rubbing his temples. "Just clumsy, perhaps."

"He is enormously destructive, albeit more from lack of comprehension than from malice." Mycroft finished his cup of tea and stood to find a trash can. "Clumsy is apt, perhaps, but no amount of instruction has encouraged anything in him that could be mistaken for grace, social or otherwise."

John's temper flared. "For all your petty bickering, he is your brother, and he wants your respect. Something approaching affection, if you're capable of it. It doesn't lessen you to occasionally act like a human being."

"He requires neither affection nor admiration from me. He never has." Mycroft set the empty cup in the dustbin. "Or anyone, as a matter of fact. He's never shown any inclination for such things."

"If you think that's true, then you weren't paying attention." John stared at him, his jaw working. "Perhaps that's why you are waiting for him to topple governments and lay waste to the countryside. Because you see no reason why he wouldn't."

"Sherlock is incapable of-" Mycroft paused. "No. Perhaps before. But you crossed his path, and in an inexplicable way, you've altered him. He's imprinted on you. Like a baby duck."

John stared at him, mouth agape. "Jesus," he finally managed, appalled. "Every time I talk to you, I am shocked that he's as stable and normal as he is. It's like I hear this voice whispering in my ear, he could be so much worse." He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands and trying to soothe the ache there. "Mycroft, if you've any hope of salvaging a relationship with him, let alone not have him as a true and very dangerous enemy, you need-"

"I believe, John, that you're laboring under a false assumption," Mycroft said, his voice soft. "Sherlock's anger has not been on his own behalf, but rather-"

There was a loud thump from the bedroom, and both of them froze.

Sherlock slammed into the living room, clutching a sheet tight at his waist. His hair was a tangle of black curls, his eyes harsh beneath lowered brows. "Mycroft," he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "This was rash, Sherlock."

"This is none of your business," Sherlock snapped back.

"Everything you do is my business. Because everything you do ends up affecting me." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, looking just a tiny bit annoyed. "Not to mention the rest of the Commonwealth."

"Your inability to do your job properly is none of my concern," Sherlock said with a tight smile. He slumped down in his usual seat, staring daggers at Mycroft. "Not. Another. Word."

John sighed. "I'm going to go and see if Mrs. Hudson has anything in the fridge. Please don't kill each other while I'm gone." Pausing, he scooped up his ruined shirt and shrugged it on. Somehow, even though it gaped open in the front, it was better than going shirtless. Awkward enough to be in the room with the two of them right now, he'd like to be dressed.

Neither of them seemed to notice him leaving.

He pounded down the stairs, not at all surprised to find the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat unlocked. She seldom remembered to lock up properly, and she'd figured out long ago that Sherlock would just pick the lock if she tried it. John passed through her very feminine front parlor, heading for the kitchen. It was spotless, and he took a moment to savor the clean space. There were likely no body parts in Mrs. Hudson's fridge.

Ah, the strange things one could get used to with a flatmate.

There were eggs in the fridge, sausages in the freezer, beans in the cupboard and a relatively fresh loaf of bread in the breadbox. John took it all and scrawled a quick note to Mrs. Hudson, explaining he'd that he'd replace her stock as soon as possible, then headed back upstairs.

The Holmes boys were still staring at each other.

"Right," John said, shifting his burden. "You're both idiots." He stalked past them, shaking his head. "Since you're clearly having a silent pissing match, I'll cook."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock snarled, eyes narrowed on Mycroft.

"Thank you, neither am I."

John set the food down on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room. With extreme care, he put his hand down on the end table. "That," he said, his voice soft and gentle, "was not a matter open to discussion. I am going to make a proper breakfast. You will eat it. If you'd like to whine or twit about it, you can do so after you have eaten. Every single thing on your plate." He leaned down, meeting Sherlock's gaze head on. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Sherlock considered him, a bit wary now. Mycroft chuckled. "You might as well give in, old man. I don't think you're going to win this one."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, folding his arms over his bare chest.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." John turned on his heel. "Breakfast will be ready in ten."

It was the most goddamned awkward meal of his life.

Mycroft ate with careful precision, his manners impecable. Sherlock, still clad only in a sheet, ate only when he was reminded. And John himself ate without tasting a bit of it, not able to keep from checking the closed blinds constantly. Even here, locked in 221B, he felt exposed, terrified that someone would find Sherlock. It didn't help his digestion.

On the plus side, no one threw anything, and no one ended up stabbed.

Mycroft was the first to set his utensils down, folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate. "Thank you, John." His plate was clean, every bit of his breakfast consumed, and he reached for his teacup.

"Really," Sherlock said, stabbing his fork into his egg, "don't talk to him."

John gave him a look, one that made no difference at all because all of Sherlock's attention was on Mycroft. "That's nonsense," John said at last. "He's your brother. Of course he's going to talk to me." He reached out and stilled Sherlock's wrist flat on the table. "Eat your egg, it's already dead."

Muttering under his breath, Sherlock went back to eating.

John looked back and forth between them. "I don't know what's going on," he said, his voice tight. "Which, I admit, that I should be used to that by now, but I'm not. It's quite frustrating. I've had an absolutely nightmarish couple of months, and I don't estimate my life's going to get any better, any time soon."

Sherlock stilled, head down over his plate, and without thinking, John reached out and stroked his hair. "Right now, you two are keeping secrets from me, and I'm getting sick of it." He stood, still touching Sherlock, his fingers comforting despite his harsh words. "I've been sick of it. I know I'm the village idiot around here, but both of you left me holding the bag. I understand why you did it, I trust you both had your reasons, but let's get something straight. I will not continue to be a pawn between you."

He leaned over, caught Sherlock's chin, and tipped his head up. Ignoring the heat that flooded his cheeks, he kissed Sherlock's lips, hard and fast, and released him. "Okay? Okay." Feeling like his face was going to catch fire, he picked up his plate, and Mycroft's as well. When Sherlock moved to stand, he pointed at the plate. "You. Eat. Talk to your brother. I'm going to take a shower."

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his fork. "There's nothing to say," he said, but his eyes were speaking volumes. For his part, Mycroft wasn't even looking in his direction. His focus was on refilling his teacup from the pot.

"Figure something out, or sit there and glare, I don't care. Just work it out, whatever it takes," John told Sherlock, peevish. "I'm a medical doctor, not a therapist, and I intend to keep it that way."

"You ought to listen," Mycroft said, reaching for the sugar bowl. "You've been difficult all morning."

"Yes, because it's so easy to have an uninvited guest first thing in the morning," Sherlock snapped back.

"Hey," John started, holding up a hand.

"If I waited for an invitation, I would've died of old age," Mycroft said, measuring sugar with precise movements. "You'd disabled the tracker in his phone, and your own."

"Wait, the what?" John asked.

"Months ago," Sherlock said, teeth gritted. "You managed to get his hours changed at the surgery."

"I should've known that was you," John said, and his headache was back, pounding with a vengence behind his temples. "Mycroft-"

"Early morning hours made it harder for you to follow him about," Mycroft said to Sherlock, ignoring John.

"Harder, but not impossible. To follow him and throw off your bloody hunters."

John looked from one to the other, outrage building in his chest, and he suddenly started to laugh. When both of the Holmes boys looked at him, he held up a hand. "I was just thinking," he said, almost weezing with the force of it, "that I now have this to look forward to. Those Christmas dinners you told me to imagine," he said to Mycroft, his eyes tearing up, and he had to stop talking, the laughter overtaking him. "I am now imagining them." He wiped his palms against his eyes. "I am imagining the rest of my bloody life with the two of you flicking peas at each other over and arguing about who got the best of the dinner rolls. Intepreting the soles of my shoes. Judging the knot in my tie. Arguing over the meaning of my mobile ringtone."

He threw his hands in the air. "Why am I so happy about this? What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Why am I actually happy about the thought of the two of you-" He smacked a hand off of his forehead. "Happy Christmas!"

"John," Sherlock started, his voice soft and uncertain.

John paused and leaned over, kissing Sherlock's curls. "It's fine, Sherlock, it's fine. Eat your breakfast." Still laughing, he left the kitchen.

This shower could not possibly be hot enough to clear his head, but he didn't have any better ideas at the moment.

"You are incredibly lucky."

Sherlock slumped lower in his chair, his face set in petulant lines. Mycroft tapped his spoon against the rim of his tea cup in a fast, angry staccato rhythm. Catching himself, he stilled his hand. Control. Control. "I hope you understand that," he said, his voice holding a surprising amount of frustration. "How close you came to utter disaster."

Sherlock shrugged, chin dipping low against his chest. His muscular shoulders were tight with some unspoken tension, and he scraped his fork through the remains of his fried egg.

Mycroft slammed his spoon down on the table. "Christ, Sherlock. Of all the foolishness. I understand, truly I do, but-"

Sherlock's head snapped up, his bright eyes full of rage. "You have no idea," he gritted out.

"Actually, I do." Mycroft picked up his tea cup, more to have something socially acceptable to do with his hands than anything else. "Whether you chose to believe me or not is immaterial, I have bled over these past few months. I have done everything possible to assist you, when you would allow it, but I warned you not to push Watson too far."

"Fuck your warnings," Sherlock muttered, and Mycroft lost his temper.

Standing so fast that the kitchen chair went toppling backwards to clatter across the floor, Mycroft slapped the cup down. It stayed intact somehow, but went flipping over, splashing the tea to the table. "You selfish little brat," he snapped out. "From beginning to end, you ignored the very human cost of what you were doing."

The whole thing had been an unending nightmare. From the instant he'd picked up Sherlock's encrypted call, Mycroft's life had been spinning into chaos. At the time, he'd been so overwhelmed by relief that it wasn't until he'd hung up that he truly understood the impact of Sherlock's call.

He was alive. And he was angry.

In retrospect, Sherlock's demands had been straightforward. He needed time to finish sorting out Moriarty's network, to make sure that there was nothing that would come back to haunt him. He would stay 'dead' as long as it took him to do this. In the meantime, he needed to keep John safe.

And if he couldn't, then that task fell to Mycroft.

Keeping an eye on John Watson without him being aware of it, and trying his best to keep tabs on Sherlock, had stretched Mycroft's resources to the limits. Under ordinary circumstances, his pool of talent would've been much larger, but Sherlock's continued survival was more than top secret.

There were a number of men Mycroft could call on at any time. Their paychecks may have listed one government agency or another, but in reality, they worked for Mycroft, and that wasn't in question. Their loyalty was to him, at all times, and it was at his whim that they were dispatched and moved. They were the only ones he could use to track Sherlock, and really, to watch Watson as well.

The constant effort to shift men and resources, to track Sherlock's sporatic appearances and John's increasingly erratic behavior, to do his own research on Moriarty's associates and criminal web, to keep up appearances on all fronts, had taken its toll on Mycroft. Never much of one for lazy lie ins or relaxation, over the past months his free time had dwindled to nothing.

Sherlock, and by extension John, had become his entire life.

The report last night had come far too late, and heads would roll for it. But when Anthea had dashed in to hand him the single page, looking ruffled and a bit panicked herself, he hadn't had the time or the inclination to deal with the offending officers. It had taken no more than an instant for him to recognize the potential for disaster in the handful of precisely typed lines.

He'd run.

Mycroft hadn't run for wars, for acts of terrorism, for the collapse of entire governments, but last night, he'd run for his brother. For his impossible, frustrating, infuriating and singular brother. He'd run until the car Anthea had sent had intercepted him, and then he'd taken that path of least resistance. The trip had taken minutes, mere minutes, but he'd spent the whole time struggling to get his breath back, running through disaster scenarios, through recovery plans, through anything he could focus on.

Anything to distract him from the disaster he was expecting.

The front room of 221B had stopped his heart. For a fraction of a second, he'd known what death had felt like. He'd stepped over the gun, glowing in the pale moonlight, his feet sending bullets rolling across the floor, his eyes taking in every inch of the flat: the echoes of violence, the torn shirt, disordered furniture.

His hand on the doorknob to Sherlock's room, he found himself praying to a higher power. It was awkward and it was uneven, unpracticed since he was a child, but he was praying. He was praying with heartfelt desperation when he pushed the door open.

And somewhere, someone was listening.

He'd seen John first, his face relaxed in sleep, his bare shoulder rising above the edge of the blankets. His pale hair was disordered, one hand resting almost against his cheek on the pillow, his fingers half curled in on his palm. His lips were curled up in a secret little smile.

Sherlock was so close behind him that for an instant, Mycroft had mistaken him for a shadow on the night dark pillows. As if he was sleepwalking, Mycroft had stepped to the head of the bed, his eyes fixed on his little brother. Sherlock was curled against John's back, his face half buried in John's hair. He was smiling in his sleep, just like John was, and he it was obvious that he was just as naked, his pale neck and back visible in the moonlight.

For a long, long moment, Mycroft had just stared down at them, and with a shaking hand, he'd reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair away from his face. The curls had been so soft that it was like he was a child again. The skin beneath was warm and alive and relaxed in slumber, and Mycroft felt like he could breathe again.

Mycroft had left them to their sleep, returning to the living room in silence. He'd taken a seat in Sherlock's chair, and let his head fall back. The night had stretched out around him, silent and dark, and it wasn't until he felt the moisture sliding into the hair at his temples that he'd realized that he was crying.

He sat there, letting the tears fall without making a sound, until the phone in his vest pocket became too much to ignore. Then, and only then, feeling ancient and exhausted, he'd sat up. Not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks, he'd pulled out his mobile and started fixing what he could of this mess.

It had taken hours, and he'd barely scratched the surface by the time the sun was fully up.

Now, after hours of stress and fear and scrambling attempts at patching holes in this increasingly leaky vessel, staring at his unrepentant little brother, he lost what little grip he still had on his temper.

"Do you have any idea what the suicide attempt rates are on soldiers who have seen extended combat?" he said, his voice soft and cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Did you give any thought at all to that? That you were taking a man, a medical man, one who's shown every indication of being overprotective of you from the moment you met, and you make him watch you kill yourself?"

Mycroft's voice rose, word by word, uncomfortably loud in his own ears, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "And then, after you shock him with your suicide, leave him to deal with the aftereffects on his own, and once you force him to deal with the fact that it was all a lie, you push him into a sexual relationship!"

Sherlock flinched, the smallest flicker of something that could've been guilt or could've been stubborn frustration, it was impossible to say.

"I warned you, didn't I? That every security check, every back ground check, everything I had found out made it clear that he'd never been involved, romantically, with another man. That at the very least, this would be a situation that he was unprepared for, and still, you still pushed him into a corner. You could not show the least patience or consideration for the one person who has always been, wil always be, on your side, you were so desperate to control him, to hold him, that you deliberately pushed him beyond his comfort zone, and I cannot imagine how that actually worked.

"When I arrived here last night, I truly expected to find one or both of you dead. My God, Sherlock, John Watson may be pure steel to his core, but even steel, in a corrosive environment and subjected to enough stress, will fracture. And fracture catastrophically."

Sherlock's lips tipped up at the corners, just the tinest twitch of his facial muscles. "Did you just try to explain my lover in engineering terms?"

"A wise teacher speaks as the pupil can understand, no matter how foolish it may seem to him," Mycroft snapped back, but despite the cutting tone, he could feel the temper flow out of him, replaced now by exhaustion and a strange sense of resignation. "You cannot continue to take him for granted, Sherlock. He's proven to be much stronger than either of us anticipated, and thank God for that, but he has been ill-used by both of us, and if you're not careful, it will be the end of the two of you."

Sherlock stood, and Mycroft was perversely pleased to see that a bit of his usual disdainful arrogance was bleeding back into his bearing. Perhaps it was a mask, perhaps it had always been a mask, but if that falsehood could help Sherlock get through this, then Mycroft was not one to deny it of him. "You might have underestimated him," Sherlock said, with a tight-lipped smile, "but trust me, dear brother, I never did."

"You are very lucky," Mycroft said, as his mobile trilled. He pulled it out and flipped through the incoming texts as he continued speaking. "You are perhaps a gambler at heart, Sherlock, but remember. Even if the odds are in your favor, lady luck does not always favor the bold. You will someday take a chance with that man, and you will come up snake eyes."

"If that happens, what will you do?" Sherlock asked, and there was actually curiosity in his voice.

Anything he needed to do. Anything he had to do. Mycroft was adept, after all, at doing distasteful things, things that weighed on his soul, for the betterment of queen and country. And his brother. "Let us hope that it never comes to that," he said, with a pleasant little smile. "Excuse me. I took the liberty of requesting some clothing be brought around for both of you." He cast a speaking glance at the pile of buttons and bullets that John had collected earlier. "You've ruined Dr. Watson's shirt and I've no doubt whatever you were wearing last night would be better off burned."

"As much as I do love your fashion sense, Mycroft, I must decline." Sherlock readjusted his sheet and headed for the bathroom. "I've no doubt that whatever you've picked out, it won't suit my current plans."

"Oh, as if I didn't know you've been hiding amongst your protective little band of Irregulars," Mycroft said. "You can look homeless and not be crawling in vermin, Sherlock."

"But the vermin add so charmingly to the ensemble," Sherlock countered. He didn't look surprised that Mycroft had discerned one of his main methods of moving undetected through the city. Of course, it hadn't done Mycroft much good. Even with an increased police presence and blocking off several of the favorite haunts of the homeless population, Sherlock's innate ability to mimic others and blend in seamlessly to an environment had made him impossible to track. He'd been captured a few times on the CCTV network, face buried behind a cap or a beard, but for the most part, the pictures were all that Mycroft had gotten out of the situation. By the time men had been dispatched, the real thing had long since disappeared.

Sherlock could be a ghost when he pleased. Despite his height, his striking looks, his presence, when he chose to disappear, he did so with aplomb. Mycroft harbored the frustrating suspicion that he had passed his brother by on the streets often these last months, unaware of the fleeting contact. If that was the truth, he didn't wish to have it confirmed. His ego had taken enough of a beating, after all.

"Most people," Mycroft tutted at Sherlock, "appreciate their lovers to be free of fleas, at the very least, Sherlock. A lack of stench also is considered a plus in the bedroom."

Sherlock's shoulder hitched up in a half shrug. "I showered before he got here." With that stunning pronouncement, he stalked off.

"You were planning the whole thing," Mycroft said, resigned. "You do not have any idea how lucky you are, you truly do not. I know this is your first real relationship, Sherlock, but you've started it on very uneven footing. Some caution, and a lot of care would not be out of the question."

"I'm well aware," Sherlock snapped. "And you've adapted to the fact that we're lovers quite quickly, haven't you?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Sherlock, the only reason it took this long is because you couldn't bear to let anyone close enough to allow for physical contact. " His mobile buzzed again. "Ah, the clothes have arrived. Stay out of sight, and do not cause additional problems." Moving towards the door, he glanced back at Sherlock. "If that's possible."

"Boring," Sherlock drawled out, and slipped into the bathroom.

John was leaning against the tile of the shower, one arm braced over his head, the other holding a washcloth. He should use it, he thought, but it was so much more comfortable to just stand there and let the hot water pound on his head and back.

Maybe he could just stay here for the rest of his life.

With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, and scrubbed the washcloth over his face, hard enough make the skin sting. It did little to clear his head, but at least he felt a bit better. He reached for the soap, intending to give himself a proper wash at last, just as the shower curtain was jerked open.

John made a sound that was very close to a shriek, his feet twisting under him as he skidded on the wet bathtub. Sherlock, naked and calm, grabbed his elbow and dragged him back upright. "Jesus," John managed, and because it didn't seem like quite enough, "Jesus, Jesus, JESUS, Sherlock, you scared the bloody HELL out of me."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, even as stepped into the shower, using his body and his grip on John's arm to manuever John deeper into the spray, making room for himself.

And suddenly there was a lot of naked skin in this shower.

John, torn between the impulse to get out, and the even stronger impulse to start licking anything he could reach, barely noticed when Sherlock took the washcloth from his hand. He considered asking Sherlock what the hell he was doing, but he wasn't certain he wanted the answer. Instead, he said, "Done arguing with Mycroft?"

Sherlock shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders as his hands worked up a lather with a bar of soap and the washcloth. "For now. You heard him?"

"I considered going back out there, but he calmed down before I could." The raised voice had scared the hell of John, to be honest. He'd been so certain that nothing short of the end of the world could provoke a raised voice from Mycroft. "You shouldn't push his buttons, Sherlock."

That won him a snort. "He doesn't have any buttons." To John's surprised, Sherlock rubbed the washcloth against John's shoulder, swiping it across his chest. "Turn around."

Oh, God, that was a bad idea. John did it anyway, turning into the spray of the shower as Sherlock scrubbed his back. "He's your brother. Not only does he have buttons, you know all of them. Hell, most of them, you probably put there."

Sherlock's fingers dug into John's back, and John groaned at the pressure, his muscles jerking beneath the almost painful pressure. When Sherlock spoke again, John could almost hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop talking about Mycroft, at least while we're naked. Unless you'd like me to invite him in?"

"Ha ha," John said, bracing his hands against the wall. "The shower's not that big." Sherlock's hands stilled on his back, and John started laughing for real. "No. No, no, no, there will be no Mycroft. I'm still pissed at him." He paused, even as Sherlock's fingers rubbed the aching column of his neck. "And you."

"I know." The fingers turned gentle, and then there was the brush of lips, just below John's hairline, enough to send a shudder through him. Sherlock's hands smoothed over John's shoulders, down his arms, even as Sherlock's lips continued to move around his throat. Head tipping to the side, John gave him better access, only to be rewarded by a sharp nip and steady suck against the skin just below his jaw.

"This is-" John jerked in Sherlock's grip, choking on a groan. "This is not going to make me forget, Sherlock."

"Mmm." Sherlock's chest was pressed against John's back, wet skin sliding against skin, hot and slick. The sensation was enough to leave John dizzy and breathing hard, already half-hard and getting harder by the second.

He closed his eyes, bending forward to reach for the faucets, trying to buy himself some breathing room, both figuratively and metaphorically. Sherlock, as if realizing that his fun was about to be ended prematurely, slid his arms around John's chest from behind, pinning John's arms against his sides, and pulling him back in, so tight now that the heat of his skin was punishing. John sucked in a breath, and it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

Dizzy from lack of air and too much heat, John found himself relaxing into Sherlock's embrace, his head falling back. "Okay, now," he was babbling and didn't care, well, not that much, "I don't know what you're up to, Sherlock, but-"

Sherlock's chuckle in his ear was dark and wicked, and put paid to any possiblity John had of getting out of this unmolested. Or wanting to, for that matter. "If you're having trouble figuring it out, then your intellect has slipped much farther than I had anticipated." His tongue flicked against John's earlobe, and John arched back into his body, panting in the steam. "I will just have to be less subtle about my intentions from now on."

"I'm going to die," John managed. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it even as the words left his mouth. Sherlock's arms tightened, the grip painful, and John hissed out a breath. "Sherlock, let me go." Calm and centered. No emotional impact. For an instant, there was no response, just the harsh feeling of Sherlock breathing behind him. "Sherlock, let me go."

The arms went slack, and John turned in his arms, bringing them face to face. Pulling his hands free, he reached up. "Look at me," he whispered. "Sherlock, look at me." He cupped Sherlock's face between his palms, his arousal taking second place to affection. When Sherlock's almost colorless eyes met his, he smiled. "I love you," he whispered, canting the words low and soft, forcing Sherlock to pay attention. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Pushing himself up, holding Sherlock's gaze until the last possible second, John sealed their lips together. "I love you," he whispered against Sherlock's mouth, the words a breath against Sherlock's beautiful lips. "I love you." His body pressing as close as he could get it, he slid his hands into Sherlock's wet hair, pushing it away from the planes of his face. "I love you," he said, and it got easier each time. No longer a dizzying, confusing revolation of some hidden secret, hidden even from himself, it was now...

Normal.

He grinned against Sherlock's mouth, winding his arms around Sherlock's neck, wet and aroused and dizzy and possibly insane, and happier than he had been, ever. The kiss stretched out, Sherlock still and frozen against him. John touched his tongue to Sherlock's lips and just like that, he seemed to come back to himself. His fingers dug into John's back, into his hips, lifting him almost off of his feet as the kiss took on a new desperation.

Startled, John opened his mouth against Sherlock's, responding in kind. His fingers stroked the nape of Sherlock's neck, down the planes of his back, to the masculine planes of Sherlock's ass. Unable to resist, he gave the firm muscles there a pinch, and Sherlock gave a little yelp into his mouth.

Breaking the kiss, Sherlock stared down at him, his breathing heavy, his high cheekbones flushed red. John grinned up at him, not the least bit intimidated, even as Sherlock's eyes narrowed into sharp blue-green slits that seemed to glow with some fresh wickedness. "You are pushing it," he whispered, his lips brushing against John's with each syllable.

"Yeah, I like you better as your normal overbearing self," John said, tipping his chin up to kiss Sherlock dead on again. "This cautious version of you is terrifying. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

With a growl, Sherlock backed him up against the shower wall, and John found himself pinned between Sherlock's weight and the cool, crisp tile. He groaned into Sherlock's mouth, his hips jerking up, feeling Sherlock as hot and heavy and aroused as he was, pressing hard into John's stomach.

Sherlock's fingers slid across John's hip, finding the thick arch of John's erection, his fingers wet and strong. John's whole body seized, an incoherant sound of pleasure shaking him down to his bones.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered against John's mouth. "I love you," he repeated, his fingers stroking in time with the words. "I missed you, so much, I couldn't-" His palm tightened around the hard arch, already learning how John liked it. He didn't need to ask, he didn't need to do more than watch and listen and feel, and John felt like he was going to go crazy if it got any better.

Wrenching his mouth away from Sherlock's, he leaned his face into Sherlock's shoulder, panting too hard to keep the kiss going. "God, Sherlock, oh, GOD," he managed. From a distance, his pleasure fogged mind too out of it to really pay attention, he could hear Sherlock's dark chuckle. In retaliation, he turned his face into Sherlock's shoulder and bit, his teeth scraping the skin. He sucked hard, determined to mark the pale skin.

The orgasm hit him with crippling speed, knocking the knees out from under him as he collapsed into Sherlock's arms, his hips jerking as he came, wave after wave of pleasure making him choke on a scream. He buried his face against Sherlock's shoulder, stifling the noise against the hot skin.

As the pleasure slowly subsided, he found himself clutching Sherlock's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Panting, he raised his head, blinking to bring his eyes back into focus. Sherlock was staring down at him, eyes bright as stars, lips parted, his expression one of arrested pleasure. John grinned up at him, forcing one hand to release Sherlock's firmly muscled shoulder. Letting his hand stroke down the wet planes of Sherlock's chest, he found the sticky residue of his semen, marking the flat expanse of Sherlock's belly. "I should not find that as hot as I do," he said, glancing down at his fingers.

"I don't know why," Sherlock said, his voice rough and pitched low. "I love it." There was a dark note of pleasure there, and John shuddered.

"God, I love your voice," he whispered, and watched, a little shocked, as Sherlock's blush deepened. John grinned, wide and happy and a tiny bit smug. "God, you're gorgeous."

Sherlock's smile was sweet, and a little shy, and John kissed him, unable to resist the need. And it was a need now, a growing addiction, and he wasn't sure if he felt bad about it, or if he didn't care. For the moment, Sherlock seemed more tthan happy to put up with it, so he found himself relaxing into the need. "You taste good," John said, his teeth scraping against Sherlock's generous lower lip. When Sherlock groaned against his mouth, John grinned. "All over."

He tore his mouth away from Sherlock's, moving his lips down the tight column of his neck, across the hard lines of his collarbone and over the planes of his chest. His tongue flicked out to curve around Sherlock's nipple, flicking there, making the pink flesh tighten. Sherlock's hands were digging into his back, finding a comfortable grip on John's wet skin, his back flush with the wall and his head thrown back. Sherlock was panting, his mouth open and his eyes closed.

John watched his face, enjoying the pleasure that twisted Sherlock's mobile features. And since Sherlock had made the mistake of closing his eyes, he pulled his lips away and simply dropped to his knees, taking Sherlock's erection in his hand and mouth all at once. Sherlock, caught off guard for once, let out a sharp, agonized sound as John's lips closed over the head of his erection.

His hands tightened on John's head, his fingers weaving through John's wet hair. "John," he said, and it came out as a brutal growl. "Don't-"

John pulled back, his fingers still stroking over the wet skin. "Why not?" he asked, curious. "You taste good. All over." He canted his head up, meeting Sherlock's panicked eyes as he grinned and opened his jaw wide. Sherlock's cock slid over his tongue and he maintained eye contact as he started to suck.

It should've been weird, but the way Sherlock was staring down at him was incredible. The naked pleasure and stunned desire there was intoxicating, the desperation that John could read in his amazing eyes, in the bright red of his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The grip on John's hair was painful, and Sherlock's hips were jerking, a broken, stuttering sound of need slipping fom his parted lips. His erection twitched in John's mouth, he came on a howl.

John sucked hard, swallowing hard as the salty liquid filled his mouth. When Sherlock finally relaxed, his body slumping back against the wall, John pulled his mouth away, coughing a bit as he did. Exhausted and stunned by his actions and Sherlock's enthusiastic reaction to them, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock's hipbone, his breath hot against the skin. He smelled good, tasted good, felt good, and John's chest felt too tight. Not wanting to think about it, about that unstable feeling of love, he leaned heavily against Sherlock's leg. He swallowed, tried to figure out what to say.

There was a firm knock at the door.

John started to laugh against Sherlock's hipbone, one hand smoothing the length of Sherlock's muscular thigh. "Oh, that's right. We have a guest," he said, his face burning with embarrassment. "I'm going to just stay here. For the rest of my life."

Sherlock's hand cupped John's head, his fingers gentle as he stroked the pale hair there back into place. "I'll kill him," he gritted out, his body still slumped against the shower wall. "I will fucking kill him."

John caught his wrist and turned Sherlock's hand palm up so he could press a kiss there. The skin was rough and hot against John's lips, and he licked the center of Sherlock's hand, making the fingers twitch. "Don't kill your brother. Especially not in the middle of our flat." He stood on trembling legs, embarrassment morphing into a giddy sort of humor. "This is the most awkward day of my life, Sherlock. I am not joshing, this is just unacceptable."

Sherlock steadied him, his hands and arms and body a rock in John's shifting world. "I love it when you get all snotty about minor inconvienances," he said, eyes dancing. "Have I ever told you that, John?"

"Somehow, that's never come up in conversation," John said, leaning into Sherlock's embrace. "But you can feel free-"

The second knock was firmer.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "Shut up. Shut up and go away."

"It's Anthea," the bored voice came back. "He's waiting for you."

John was laughing out loud now, water in his face, in his mouth, and he couldn't do anything more than reach for the taps, turning off the flow. Their water bill was going to be astronomical if they kept this up. Somehow, he didn't much care.

"Bloody Mycroft and his bloody damned minions," Sherlock snarled out, even as he grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around John's shoulders, his hands gentle. Startled, John caught the terrycloth and scrubbed it over his skin before wrapping it around his waist.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower, stalking soaking wet to the door. Wrenching it open, he looked down the length of his impressive nose at Anthea. "What."

She looked up from her Blackberry, meeting his eyes for only an instant before her gaze slid down the full length of his naked body. Her expression didn't change as she returned to her mobile. "Clothing," she said, nodding at the bags by her feet. They carried the familiar logo of a high end men's shop, and Sherlock glared down at them.

John reached around him to wrap a towel around his waist. "Thank you," he said to Anthea, grabbing the bags by the handles and pulling them into the bathroom. "Sherlock, c'mon." Juggling his own towel and the bags, he tried to grab Sherlock's arm. The knot at his waist slipped, and he tried to pin his towel in place with the side of his arm.

Anthea's lips curled up. "You two are adorable," she said, still focused on her mobile, and John felt his face heat. Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking Anthea's view, and shut the bathroom door. On the other side, Anthea giggled, a soft little twitter of sound.

"Idiot," Sherlock snarled.

Laughing, John tossed the bags beside the sink and grabbed another towel, glad that they were still there at all. He'd known that Mrs. Hudson's attempts to clean the place had been haphazard, but it was like no one had touched the bathroom at all. "Lean over." He wrapped the towel around Sherlock's hair, rubbing with gentle fingers until the locks were reduced to damp curls. "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson, make sure she doesn't finish cleaning this place and start looking for a new tenant."

"She won't," Sherlock said from under the towel. When John pulled it away, Sherlock had a contented, relaxed look on his face. "Mycroft's been paying the rent."

Everything clicked into place. No wonder she hadn't been in any rush to pack up the last of their things, nor had she asked John to come collect Sherlock's personal effects. He'd assumed that she'd been talking to Mycroft, but not like this. "She thinks I'm going to move back in. When I'm ready."

Sherlock shrugged as John moved to dry his chest and shoulders. "I'm sure she'd prefer it."

"I couldn't afford the rent on this place on my own."

"I left you-"

John put a hand in the center of his chest and gave him a sharp shove. "Don't even. Jesus, if you think I was going to touch pound one of your money, you're mental."

Sherlock stared down at his chest, confusion on his face as John threw the towel at him. He caught it. "What's the point in ignoring an inheritance?"

"I am not having this conversation." John shook his head, and finished drying himself with a couple quick swipes of his towel. He grabbed one of the bags, a quick glance told him that the clothing was sized to fit Sherlock, not him, and he handed it over before he emptied the other onto the counter.

Thankfully, the clothes were the right size, and simple. Shorts, a pair of jeans, a pale blue button down shirt and clean socks. Relieved, John started dressing.

"I specifically changed my will so that you would-"

"Okay, Sherlock, when I say, I'm not having this conversation," John snapped out, fastening his jeans and reaching for the shirt, "I mean, shut up now, because you're just making me mad again, and I don't think that's what you want."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John pointedly put his back to the infuriating man. He heard a faint sigh, then the rustle of the towel fabric.

"It's just-"

"OH MY GOD." John slammed out of the bathroom, socks clutched in one fist, and stalked back into the living room. Mycroft was sitting on the couch, looking as if the information in his notebook was the only thing that had any importance whatsoever, and no, he was not going to be part of this discussion. "Please explain to your brother that I have no desire to profit from his death!" John snapped, throwing himself into his chair.

"I should have an easier time explaining theoretical physics to a hedgehog," Mycroft said, one eyebrow arching. He glanced up, and groaned. "For heaven's sake, Sherlock, we have all seen quite enough of you for today, please put your trousers on."

"I haven't," Anthea said from the kitchen.

"Dear, please refrain from posting any photos to the internet, at least until he is 'alive' again," Mycroft said, and that was enough to send Sherlock back to his bedroom to get dressed.

John's eyes flicked between them. "You wouldn't-" he started.

"Of course not," Mycroft soothed, but Anthea's mouth was still twitching with something that looked like revenge in progress. Mycroft cleared his throat, and closed his notebook. "While we have a moment of calm," he said, clearly meaning a Sherlock-free moment, "perhaps it's best to discuss where we're going from here."

John leaned back in his chair. "Yes. Let's."

Across the street, a cigarette was placed on the windowsill, a thin curl of acrid smoke curling upwards in the darkened room. The smoker grinned, his teeth white and sharp. Captain John Watson, it would appear, had finally returned to 221B Baker Street.

Finally, the endgame could begin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Resurrection: Pt 3**

The sight of Sherlock Holmes in a worn pair of jeans and a battered black hoodie should've been comical, it was so out of character. Instead, at least for John Watson, it was kind of hot. He was doing his best not to look, but without his usual precise fashion, Sherlock looked younger, less guarded. John wondered, idly, if Mycroft had any pictures of him from his uni days. It was worth asking. Maybe he had short hair...

Oh, God, he was a pervert.

"You cannot just wander in and out," Mycroft was saying to Sherlock, who didn't seem impressed with that logic. The way they were facing off, with Sherlock slumped low on the couch, his arms folded and his face like a thundercloud beneath damp curls, and Mycroft, exhausted and frustrated and still in a three piece suit, his tie tight at his throat and his hair in order, made him chuckle.

When the both looked at him with varying degrees of confusion, he shrugged. "You look very much like a frustrated father and teenage son caught out past curfew," he said, standing and collecting the mugs from the coffee table. Mycroft's lips twitched, and Sherlock snorted.

"Fairly apt," Mycroft said, rubbing a hand over his face. "You do realize," he said to Sherlock, "that anyone who might be looking for you would have eyes on this place."

"You've doubled the CCTV cameras on this street and you still didn't catch me," Sherlock smirked back. "Are you implying they're smarter than you, or better equipped?"

John winced, but Mycroft took the verbal body blow in stride. "Yes, how did you get into this building without us knowing?"

Sherlock shrugged, but there was a faint smirk on his face. "221C."

Mycroft groaned, and John glanced over, surprised. "There's no way into or out of that flat other than the main hall," he said, brow wrinkling. The basement flat was dark and what windows it had weren't visible from the street, which was one of the reasons why Mrs. Hudson had such a hard time renting it out.

"No visible way," Sherlock said, the smirk growing. "Which is why no one's caught me."

"Yet," Mycroft said.

"Ever," Sherlock shot back.

"How?" John asked, rinsing out a mug and setting it aside.

"There's a break in the back of the building. An old coal chute," Sherlock said. "It was sealed up, but in a haphazard way. I found it not long after Mrs. Hudson showed me the flat. Every time you went away for the weekend, I worked on it."

"When I went away?"

"Oh, like you'd approve of me ripping out a chunk of load bearing wall without supervision," Sherlock groused.

"Or permission," John added. "So there's a secret door."

"From the back alley into 221C, behind what used to be the furnace room, yes," Sherlock said.

"That's where you've been hiding. Downstairs from your usual flat," Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock shrugged. "You weren't looking for me here, were you?"

"Don't be smug, Sherlock," John said, with a faint smile.

"I'm not smug. I'm self-confident," he said, but the smile he tipped in John's direction was his usual tight lipped smirk. John grinned back, glad that Sherlock seemed a little less... Breakable. There was something terrifying about that, about all the fragility that he knew was hiding behind Sherlock's cool eyes.

"Is that safe? I mean, what if someone finds the entrance?" John asked, not really comfortable with this. Or maybe a little too comfortable. Oh, God, if he could just move back in here, and know that Sherlock was down stairs, yeah, he was greedy and selfish and an idiot, but yes. He wanted that.

"The entrance is well camouflaged, and the keys to 221C was changed, along with the front door key, after Moriarty dropped off Carl Power's shoes," Sherlock said. "It's as safe as any other location, more so, because I know the area well."

"You really should get out of London entirely," John said, shaking his head. "If Moriarty finds you, that's what you should be worried about."

There was a moment of stillness, and he glanced at the Holmes boys. Mycroft was sitting with his hands folded on his umbrella handle, his head down and his eyes on his folded fingers. In the other chair, Sherlock was slumped low, his head tipped up, staring at the ceiling as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. John had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach about this, but he asked anyway, "What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who made no move to answer. "Moriarty is dead."

John released a breath he wasn't even aware that he'd been holding. "You're certain of that." Moriarty, dead. He wasn't one to revel in death, really, but, God, yes, that was one party he'd attend. The world was better off without that psycho.

"He was on the roof with me," Sherlock said. "And he blew his brains out in front of me."

"Jesus." John stared at him, horrified. "He was up there with you? With a GUN?"

Sherlock glanced at him, a faint smile on his face. "I had a very bad day," he said, and John crossed the distance between them, not sure why, not sure what to do, but to his surprise, Sherlock reached a hand out to him, and he grabbed hold with a strange sort of desperation. He'd be embarrassed, but Sherlock was clutching his fingers just as hard.

John sank down to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "How did you cover that up?" he asked Mycroft, who didn't look up. Confused, John looked at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"We buried him in my grave."

And just like that, John felt what little control he still had over his life crumble away. "No," he said, his voice flat and quiet.

Sherlock blinked. "Yes, that's what we-" He let out a hiss of surprise as John's hand tightened painfully on his.

"No," John repeated, shaking his head. "No. Absolutely not." His eyes snapped to Mycroft. "No. No, I can't-" He stood, dropping Sherlock's hand like it was suddenly too hot. "Jesus, no. No, I-" Swinging around towards Mycroft, he stabbed a finger in his direction. "Fix this. You fix this, right now."

Mycroft's eyes slid up to meet John's eyes. "I can't. Yet," he said. "I wasn't happy with it, either, but we needed a body, and we needed to hide another body. It was the logical solution."

"Logical," John said, his voice tight. "Really. You consider this logical." He took a deep breath, then another, trying to hold himself together. "No." He turned away from both of them, heading into the kitchen, his whole body just shuddering with tension, and then he was out of room and out of flat, and there was no where for all this rage, this pent up rage to go, and he grabbed a mug from the counter and threw it at the wall with all the strength he had. It hit and shattered, bits of porcelain going in all direction, and he didn't care, it didn't make him feel better, but nothing could make him feel worse, and he grabbed another, his arm coming back.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist before he could let it fly. "John..."

"Don't," John snapped out, hearing the wheedling tone that was there under the words, soft and subtle, but there. "Don't. You. Dare," he bit out, each word its own snapping attack. "Don't you try to-" Sherlock tugged on his wrist, pulling him around so they were face to face, and John jerked his arm in his grip. "I cannot even deal with you right now," he snapped.

Sherlock moved forward, pinning John between his body and the cabinets. "I'm sorry," he said, but it sounded frustrated.

"You don't even know what you're apologizing for!" John yelled, trying to pull his wrist free, but Sherlock wouldn't let go, and he put his other hand on Sherlock's chest, shoving, trying to buy himself some room. "Jesus, you are not going to get out of every argument by-" His words cut off with a snarl, and his fingers grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, yanking him down without finesse or delicacy.

Their mouths came together even harder than he'd anticipated, and he didn't care, he just didn't, he just slammed his mouth against Sherlock's, and Sherlock didn't seem to mind. His fingers slid into John's hair, cautious at first, almost delicate. John growled against his mouth, and Sherlock's hands tightened.

The kiss was angry, searing, John's fingers on Sherlock's shirt, only his shirt, avoiding skin or any deeper touch. His mouth was hungry, hot, his teeth scraping on Sherlock's lower lip, and he knew that he wasn't responding rationally, but he no longer cared.

Sherlock absorbed the impact without flinching, his strong hands smoothing over John's head, his neck, down his back, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and John didn't give a damn about that, either. When John heard him groan, the sound almost lost in the heavy breathing that passed between their lips, the sound sent a shock through his body.

John's hand flattened over the hard, steady beat of Sherlock's heart, and the rage drained out of him.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, sucking in breath with desperation, and John let his head fall forward, onto Sherlock's shoulder. He felt Sherlock rest his cheek on his head, and that wasn't bad. He could handle that.

God, he wished it didn't feel so good.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the kitchen, but John could feel it through his whole body, from where they were pressed together, from the pressure of Sherlock's lips on his head.

John took a deep breath. "You mean that, I know you do," he said, with a weak chuckle. "But you don't have any clue what you're apologizing for, do you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and John raised his head, eyes narrowed in a sharp glare. "Don't lie to me," he said, his voice still and firm. "I can not cope with that right now. I have had a pretty brutal twelve hours here, Sherlock, and we're not on stable ground yet, you and me, so do not lie to me."

Sherlock studied him, and his eyes slid away, his face a familiar, cold mask. John could feel him retreating, pulling himself back to avoid rejection. "I don't, no."

John sighed, and moved off of Sherlock's lap. That took far more willpower than he would've guessed, but judging by the pinched, miserable look that flashed across Sherlock's face, he wasn't happy with it, either. John settled down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, leaning up against the kitchen cabinets. He took Sherlock's hand in his and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I went to your-" His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "I went to your grave often."

"I know," Sherlock said, sounding lost.

John's lips quirked up, just a bit. "I know you know. But I went there, because, because I had no where else to go, Sherlock. I had no where to be. I was lost. So I worked, I slept in a sterile hole of an apartment because I couldn't bear to come home, to come here, and I sat next to your grave and talked to you. That was all I had left of you. That was what kept me together, all that kept me together, especially for the first few weeks after you-" Yeah, he wasn't getting that word out, so he waved his free hand.

"And now you're blindsiding me with the fact that you weren't there, that Moriarty was. That you allowed that-" His face twisted, the closest he'd ever felt to rage burning in his chest, "that monster to be buried in sacred ground under your name, that- That's an abomination to me, Sherlock. That's a desecration of the highest order."

He sucked in a deep breath. "How he went after you, Sherlock, it was like he was trying to strip you of your identity. Of who you were. He took your reputation, your good name, your standing with everyone we know, and the thought of him literally and truly taking your place after your death is just-" He choked on it, and it was a struggle to get himself under control again.

"I did not need to know that. I hate, I absolutely hate that you had to do that. That you allowed him to steal even your final resting place from you."

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. "I'm not dead," he pointed out.

"Thank God," John said, and it was with all the fervency that his lapsed religious background would allow.

"And even if I was, I'd be dead, so I don't understand what difference it makes," Sherlock pointed out with perfect logic. "Even if my body was there, it's just a decomposing-"

John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Okay, that's enough of that." But he couldn't keep a straight face as Sherlock stared at him, blinking over the mask of his fingers. "It's not rational. It's an emotional response." That earned him more blinking. "I hate Moriarty." Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "I love you." He felt Sherlock's smile against his palm. "I want to keep the two of you separate. Always."

Sherlock shrugged, and mumbled something against John's palm. John lifted his hand away, but kept it close. "He's dead," Sherlock said, with a faint smile. "I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, that puts me ahead of him, no matter where he's buried."

"We win," John agreed, and Sherlock kissed him. He relaxed as Sherlock's hands crept up his arms and came to rest on his shoulders. "I'm still so angry with you," he said, but it lacked heat. He slumped forward, head finding the hollow at the base of Sherlock's neck. He felt Sherlock's chin rest on his head, and took a deep breath, ignoring the prick of tears in his eyes.

He felt Sherlock take a deep breath. "You need to stop being angry with Mycroft," he said at last, and there was a stillness in his voice that made John's eyes slide shut.

John pulled back, meeting Sherlock's eyes head on. "No, I don't. I get to be very, very angry with him. You know what he did. You know he told Moriarty all about you. He-" John gritted his teeth. "He set you up."

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"So why would you think I'd have to forgive him that?"

"Because I told him to do it."

John stared at him. "What?" he managed at last, the word a thin, thin whisper. "What did you just say?"

Sherlock leaned against the cabinet. "I told him to do it. When they first took Moriarty into custody, he warned me. Warned me that they wouldn't be able to hold him for long, and his obsession with me seemed to be, if anything, becoming more all-encompassing. I told him to string Moriarty along by providing him information about me."

"Why?" John's voice broke. "Jesus, Sherlock, why would you do that?"

Sherlock's eyes shut. "Because I could not end up back in that pool," he said, and there was an ugly note in his voice.

"Pool, what- What are you talking about?" John asked, but the anger, the hurt was fading into confusion. Into concern. "What pool?"

Sherlock's eyes opened again, and John reached out, not surprised when Sherlock latched onto his fingers with a staggering desperation. "The first case. With Moriarty. The pool."

"Oh! Oh, God, no, Sherlock, we're not doing that again." John let out a bark of laughter. "That was the worst day of my life, including the one where I got shot, so yes, not doing that again."

"We would have, though," Sherlock said, his voice thin and tight. "Unless I gave him something else to focus on, we were going to be right back there, and I can't, I couldn't conceive of that, John, I couldn't cope, and-" He sucked in a long, steadying breath. "I had to give him something else to manipulate."

"I don't understand," John said, but he held onto Sherlock's hand, held on tight when Sherlock's fingers twitched in his grasp.

"You were my only weak spot," Sherlock said, the words haunted. "I don't think you understand that, John, you were-" His throat worked. "I had to give him something else. Some other flaw, some other weak spot to attack, because if I didn't, he'd go after you. I knew he would. There was nothing I could do to stop that.

"So I worked it out with Mycroft. We'd steer Moriarty's attention in another direction. A direction he could understand, that he anticipated, the need for recognition." Sherlock's lips curled up, just a little, a bitter smile. "Don't you remember what I told you at the beginning, John, at our first case, about serial killers?"

John's eyes widened. "The clever ones always make a mistake, because they want to get caught," he said, the words slow. "They need the recognition. Holy Jesus, Sherlock, you-"

"Fed him the information. Gave him a route to attack that mirrored what I knew about him. That if he thought that my reputation, my public persona was the most important thing, then he'd focus his attacks on me, and not you." Sherlock stared at the floor. "He understood that, more than he understood-" His lips got tight, and he made a gesture between himself and John, and John raised an eyebrow.

"More than he'd understand an emotional bond," John filled in for Sherlock. "Because he was a sociopath. He didn't feel much of anything for anyone. So he expected you to be the same." Sherlock shrugged, his face tight, and John reached out with his free hand, the one that wasn't holding Sherlock's hand, and pulled Sherlock's head down to his shoulder. "You set yourself up. To protect me."

"And because I don't give a bloody damn what the stupid idiots reading their morning papers think of me," Sherlock gritted out. "I've a lot of experience with being accused of lying and faking things, I'm used to it. I don't care."

John's arm tightened on him. "I do," he whispered, but it was falling into place. Sherlock had never chased publicity. He'd never insisted on being recognized for his work with Lestrade or the Met. It would've been easy for him to be famous, but until John had started his blog, he'd labored comfortably in obscurity.

"I care what you think of me," Sherlock said, against John's shoulder. "Lestrade, too, to a point. Mycroft, perhaps. But not the wide world, let them think what they will. They have before, and that just makes them stupid. Stupid and wrong."

And it still hurt him, somewhere inside, and John knew it. "You know what?" he whispered into Sherlock's hair. "I will always believe in you. Always. Even when you're trying to convince me otherwise, you lying bastard."

Sherlock choked on a laugh, his fingers tightening on John's shirt. "Thank you," he whispered. "I-" He took a deep breath, and his whole body expanded with it. He pushed back, meeting John's eyes, and there was something dark and dangerous there, something that John hadn't seen very often, and truly, he didn't want to see ever again. "You have no idea how far I will go to protect you. What lengths I would go to, to keep you safe."

John cupped his cheek, and stroked a thumb against his cheek, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. "I killed a man to keep you alive after knowing you for about a day," he said, his voice calm. "I understand completely."

Sherlock leaned over, kissing him, sweet and soft, and it deepened before John knew what was happening, and he shouldn't do this, shouldn't let Sherlock do it, but damn, it felt good, and by the time they broke apart, he was breathing hard and dizzy.

"No," Sherlock said, his voice gentle. "You don't."

John gave him a look from below his lowered brows. "Let's get one thing straight," he said at last. "You are not to hurt yourself, or allow yourself to be hurt, to keep me safe. Do you understand?" Sherlock gave him a shrug, and John's hands grabbed his shoulders, giving them a shake. "I am not doing that again, Sherlock. Don't you ever do that to me again."

Sherlock gave him a half-smile. "Of course not."

"Oh, like I haven't lived with you long enough to recognize evasion when you try it." John shook his head. "Don't lie to me. It's not right."

"Are you trying to appeal to my sense of morality?" Sherlock said, and his lips were twitching. "Because, you do realize I don't have one."

"That is a lie," John said, letting Sherlock pull him into his lap again. "You most certainly do-" He grabbed for Sherlock's hand as it slid down the plane of his stomach. "Oh, no. No, no, no, you are not going to-" He gave a yelp of surprise as he found himself flipped onto his back on the kitchen floor, Sherlock looming over him. "No," he said, eyes narrowing. "This is not going to happen. You are not going to get out of every fight we have by distracting me with sex."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, his lips brushing John's jaw, his throat, moving down, and John struggled against him, knowing it was a losing battle.

Hell, he was half-hard already, because his body had absolutely no sense of shame.

"Because-" His breath was sucked in on a hard hiss as Sherlock's teeth scraped against his skin. "Jesus, Sherlock, no. No, get-" He let his head fall back with a thump. "You are incorrigible, you know that, don't you?"

"Mmm," Sherlock purred against John's chest.

"I am not forgetting that you took advantage of me while I was drunk," John said, twisting under Sherlock's weight.

"Well, of course. You never would've let me, otherwise," Sherlock said, and John worked a hand free and pulled Sherlock's head up.

"That's not going to work a second time."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "What, allowing you to get drunk and jump me? I rather think it will."

"I didn't jump you, you-" John couldn't hold back his laughter anymore, and he gave Sherlock a look. "I am not having sex with you on the kitchen floor. Get off."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed, and seemed to come to the conclusion that John was serious. Or at least serious enough that he had to obey. With an annoyed sounding sigh, he rolled off of John. John lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and trying to get himself under control. Finally, he sat up, ignoring way his head spun. "Is Mycroft-"

"He disappeared right about the time I started kissing you," Sherlock said. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's on his way to the office. He does have to check in from time to time."

"I'm surprised he leaves," John said, rubbing a hand down his face. "God, Sherlock, what are we doing to do with you?"

Sherlock's lips curled up, just a tiny bit. "Love me?" he said, and the words seemed to surprise him more than they did John, but John grabbed his shoulders before he could backpedal.

"I already do," John said, dropping a light, gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. "And I'll say it as often as you need to hear it."

Sherlock's arms closed around him, pulling him close, and John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. "I love you," Sherlock whispered against his hair, and John smiled.

"I love you, too." John let their legs tangle together. "And I want our life back. The real one. I want our cases and our flat with the windows wide open, and our friends and-" He sucked in a deep breath. "I want you alive."

"Mycroft has some work to do before we get to that. We'll need more help than that, since I'm still the prime suspect in half a dozen criminal cases. If I come back now, I'll end up back in handcuffs. Faking one's own death isn't looked upon as something innocent men do." Sherlock's fingers stroked the nape of John's neck. "We need Lestrade."

"Yes, we do," John said, straightening up. "When?"

Sherlock studied his face, eyes narrowing. "You think we can trust him."

"Yes." There was no doubt in John's mind on that front. "He'll protect you."

With a nod, Sherlock shifted out of John's reach and rolled to his feet. He offered John a hand and pulled him up, up into his arms. Laughing, John hugged him tight, and kissed the line of his throat. "Enough," he managed, even as his own arms tightened. "When?"

"Now." Sherlock steered him towards the bedroom, and John dug his heels in.

"No, no, no we are not-" Laughing, he pulled out of Sherlock's reach. "When are we going to talk to Lestrade?"

"Now," Sherlock repeated, his lips curled up, and he was so real, so perfect, John was dizzy with it. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head, smoothing his dark hair out of sight. "Take a cab, you know the address of his flat?"

"I've got it in my book, yes. Are you going to wait here?" John asked, knowing the answer, but he'd much prefer Sherlock stay hidden and safe.

"No, I'll meet you there." Sherlock's fingers brushed John's cheek. "Don't worry. I can make it there on my own."

John shook his head. "I don't like the sound of that, Sherlock..."

Sherlock gave him a grin, and it was his usual, wicked grin, and the sight of it was like a blow to John's breastbone. He grinned back, ignoring the way his eyes pricked. "I'll be fine," Sherlock said. "Trust me?"

"God only knows why, but yes." John grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him down for one last hard, deep kiss. "Stay safe, stay out of sight."

"I'll beat you there. Don't worry."

"Oh, I do nothing but."

* * *

><p>Bloody night shifts were gonna ruin him.<p>

Greg Lestrade tromped up the stairs to his flat, his leaden legs and aching shoulders making it a rough go. At this rate, he mused to himself, shifting his leather satchel under his arm, he was barely going to make it to his bed before passing out. It had been a rough night, and he was, in the traditional vernacular, getting too old for this.

He reached the third floor landing, his mind still puttering away at the cases that had crossed his desk, and almost missed the compact form standing next to his door. He blinked, surprised. "John. You all right?"

John had been standing to the far side of his flat door, his shoulders just resting against the wall, a typical posture that brushed the edges of parade rest without looking too uptight. He looked wan and washed out, his eyes and face holding echoes of his drinking of the night before. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Morning, Greg."

Lestrade shifted his satchel to his other hand and extended his right to shake John's. Eyes narrowed, he considered the other man with a critical gaze. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what brings you out my way?"

John's grip was firm and warm, his hand as steady as his gaze. Reassured, Lestrade fumbled in his pocket for his keys. "I need your help," John said, his voice pitched low.

Pausing, his keys halfway to the lock, Lestrade nodded. "Yeah? What's up?"

John stepped closer. "Did you believe it?" he asked, and his voice was so low that Greg almost didn't hear him. As one, both men glanced around, their gazes coming back together at the same time.

Lestrade considered the question only for a second, knowing what it meant. Shocked, on some level, that it hadn't been asked of him before. Not by John. He'd taken the whole mess with more dignity than Lestrade could've managed, calm and precise as he answered questions and responded to charges. He'd always liked John, liked him more because his presence had made Sherlock manageable.

How odd of a thought that was. Five years or more of working with Sherlock, a necessary evil that they'd all fallen into the habit of, but it had been such a strain, dealing with him, until John Watson had come along and somehow, inexplicably, taken him in hand. It wasn't that Watson had changed him; Lestrade didn't think that anything was capable of changing Holmes, but John had tempered some of his rougher edges, reigned him in, kept him focused.

He owed John for that, at the very least.

"No," Lestrade said now. He couldn't help glancing up the corridor again, even though he knew any neighbors he had were on their way to work, the building was likely empty now but for the two of them. Still, he'd been careful for the last few months, no reason to ruin everything now. "No. Tempting at first, but it doesn't hold up under clear thought." He reached out and unlocked the door. "Let's talk inside."

John grabbed his wrist. "I need to know," he said, stepping closer, his jaw set. "That you are on my side right now."

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder. "I am," he gritted out, "but if I go public with that, John, I'll lose my access to the files we both need to get this mess cleared up. We owe him at least that much, yeah?"

For an instant, they stared at each other, and finally, John dropped his hand. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Inside." Lestrade opened the door and waved him in. He got them both through the door and shut it, locking it for good measure. "Expected you to come around with this stuff earlier than this, to be honest."

"It wasn't your problem, and Sherlock put you in a bad enough position at work as it was, without me making you chose sides."

"True, but I should've stuck with him. It didn't make sense, and once people calmed down, it was more and more clear that we'd been lead around by our noses." And didn't that grate on the nerves. Bad enough that Sherlock jerked the police force around, having two people capable of doing it was just intolerable. "Even if he'd been able to do what the papers were claiming, and it wasn't out of his ability range, mind you, too many little cases, too many little people popping up to make it an open and shut case. You swallow their story, you gotta assume he's been committing crimes for years without getting caught." Lestrade paused, a faint smile on his face. "Or bragging about it."

"That would probably be harder," John admitted, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded his head. "C'mon, let's have a cuppa, I've a little petrol in the tank yet."

"Lestrade, wait, I've-"

Greg had stepped past him, into the kitchen, and time seemed to slow down, stagger, stop. The tea kettle was on the counter, not the stove, where it belonged, and a faint hint of steam was still curling from the spout. Still hot. The tea chest was open nearby, wrappers scattered haphazardly across the surface. Cabinet doors were ajar, drawers not quite closed, a used knife resting beside the toaster.

As if from a distance, Lestrade heard the thump of his portfolio hitting the kitchen floor, and he was drawing his weapon, steadying it with both hands, turning on his heel to the only part of the kitchenette that he couldn't see, bringing the weapon to bear as he stepped around the counter, ignoring the way John was trying to grab his arm.

He stepped out and around, and stared down the barrel of his weapon at the man calmly sipping tea at his dining table. "Your tea selection," Sherlock Holmes said, balancing a saucer in one hand, "is absolute rubbish."

Lestrade was aware of John hitting him from the side, coming up under his arm, forcing the gun up and away from the dark haired ghost at his table, but he was barely holding on now, to the weapon or to his senses, it was the exhaustion, it had to be the exhaustion, he hadn't been sleeping hadn't been eating, and everything was-

"How many times do we have to go over TIMING, Sherlock?" he heard John yell, and then everything went black.

"Lestrade?"

His eyes shot open, and he blinked, his vision fuzzy and indistinct. "What the hell?" Greg managed, and he realized he was lying down. "What.. The hell?"

John Watson was leaning over him, a wet dishcloth in his hand. "You had a shock," he said. "No, no, don't-" he started, as Lestrade struggled into a sitting position. Giving up, John pitched the cloth towards the table and put an arm around Lestrade's back, supporting him.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade asked him, trying to remember. Something-

"You fainted," Sherlock said, stepping out of the kitchen. "It was rather impressive, actually, you went down like a maiden with the vapors." His lips curled up in a mocking little smile. "I got photographs."

"Sherlock-" John started.

"You're dead," Lestrade said, staring at him. "You bloody bastard, you're dead."

"Parlor tricks and misdirection," Sherlock said, sitting down again. "Stop talking, you're just embarrassing yourself."

"Parlor tricks?" Lestrade sputtered. "Parlor tricks? Sally's got your autopsy report framed on her cube wall!"

"That's rather morbid," Sherlock said, glancing at John. "Did you get copies?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, no." John gave him a disbelieving look.

"Pity. I rather did want to see it. I'll have to ask Molly." There was a sharp whistle from the kitchen, and Sherlock popped up. "I'll get the kettle."

Lestrade watched him go, his head still spinning. "He's not dead," he said to John. John shook his head, no. "How long has he been not dead?"

"I assume, all along. I just learned about it last night, though, so don't feel bad." John reached into his pocket, coming out with a penlight. "Look at me, please."

"I'm fine," Lestrade said, trying to turn his head, but John didn't give up.

"I tried to, you know, catch you when you went down, but you still banged your head when you hit the ground," he said, his voice apologetic. "So I'd really like to check, if you please."

Lestrade sighed, but let him do his work. "I'm fine. Just got lightheaded there. I mean, it was a shock."

"Oh, I understand." John sat back, satisfied by the reaction of Lestrade's pupils. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Any pain?"

"I need a stiff drink, that's about all."

"Do you really think that would help?" John asked, a faint smile on his face. "Really. The man's back from the dead and he's bloody smug about the fact, you think you want to be drunk around him? That strikes me as a very poor idea."

"When you put it that way, yeah, bad idea." Lestrade stared at him. "This is real, then? He's really not dead?"

"He's really not dead," John said, his smile growing. He leaned in and whispered, "We're not that lucky."

Lestrade choked on a snort of laughter, just as Sherlock wandered back in, holding the tea pot. "This is just idiotic," he said, frowning down at the pot. "I don't know what-"

He didn't even realize he was doing it, but somehow, Greg was on his feet, letting out a whoop of laughter. Before Sherlock could figure out what he doing, Greg had wrapped his arms around the lanky man and was hugging him hard enough to lift Sherlock's feet clear off the floor. "You bastard!" he yelled, and it was full of laughter and relief and shock. "You bloody goddamn bastard!"

John lunged to steal the teapot from Sherlock's flailing hand before it could go flying. He was laughing, even as Sherlock grabbed at Lestrade's shoulders and pushed. When his feet were finally back on the ground, he remained braced, hands on Lestrade's shoulders, his whole body leaning back and away. He had a traumatized look on his face, and John started laughing even harder.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, he's not going to hit you."

"No, that was your reaction," Sherlock said, still wary. "I think I preferred that."

"Fine, you bastard," Lestrade said, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock on each cheek with a smack. "Bloody fuckin' bastard, if you ever do anything that stupid again, I will kill you."

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of being happy I'm alive?" Sherlock said.

"I'd almost forgotten just how bloody annoying you are." Lestrade let go of his arms at last, staggering back to the table and collapsing into a chair. He held up his hands in front of his face, laughing as he realized he was actually trembling. "You goddamn bastard."

"So you've said," Sherlock said, taking his own seat. "Don't ever kiss me again."

"Agreed," Lestrade said, grinning.

John looked at both of them. "Anyone for tea?" he asked, holding up the teapot.

"God, why not?" Greg said.

Sherlock nudged the teacups forward. "Mycroft will want to speak to all of us."

"All of us?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows arching. "Did I agree to be part of your merry band of idiots?"

Sherlock took the cup of tea that John handed him. "You are known for making very poor choices," he pointed out.

"Yeah, that's true." Lestrade saluted him with his teacup. "Where and when?"

* * *

><p>"This isn't going to be easy."<p>

Mycroft didn't raise his head from his files. He'd spent the majority of the day marshaling his forces, getting his paperwork in order, and sending over the bare essentials of survival to 221c Baker St. Under the guise of a contract to repaint and wallpaper the basement flat, an unremarkable van had been moving boxes and tool kits in and out of the building all afternoon.

Now, the windows to the flat had been blocked off and a simple table, chairs, and cot had been moved in. Paperwork was scattered across the table, with both Sherlock and Mycroft going through the files with brutal efficiency. Lestrade had contributed a small number that neither of them had seen yet, and he was glancing at some of the ones Mycroft had brought from, well, higher sources.

John had a laptop balanced on his knees, one that had been sanitized and rendered untraceable by the anonymous government techs that had supplied it to Mycroft. He was sifting through the online rumor sites, shaking his head in amusement from time to time.

"How so?" Mycroft said to him.

"This is just... An unbelievable amount of data," John said to him. "Have your people been tracking this at all?"

"Low level," Mycroft said, uninterested.

"You should be paying more attention. Sherlock is, shall we say, memorable." Next to him, his shoulders braced against the wall, Lestrade let out a snort of amusement. "People are coming out of the woodwork with stories." His eyebrows arched. "Some of them are highly implausible, but still."

"The implausible ones are the ones that are true," Mycroft said.

"Mmm, that's likely correct," Sherlock agreed, flipping through a stack of pages. "You can't imagine you can tie this to Moriarty." He tossed the file towards Mycroft, who gave him an annoyed look.

"It was Moriarty."

"That's not the point. The point is tying him to it."

"At this point, we do need proof." Lestrade was chewing on a plastic coffee stirrer, his fingers busy on the edges of the sheets. "I'll see what I can find, some of this stuff, I had no idea it was being investigated."

John glanced at him. "Don't get in trouble."

Lestrade's shoulder rose in a half-shrug. "It's fine. I've been on desk duty ever since the whole mess went down. I've still got access where I need to, but I keep my head down."

"I'm surprised it wasn't worse than that," John said, wincing.

"Hard to fire me when two thirds of the cops knew full well that Sherlock was using London's crime scenes as his personal playground. No one liked talking about it, because it was against half the rules we've got, but everyone knew. If someone said they didn't, they either weren't paying attention or they were being deliberately obtuse." Lestrade shifted the coffee stirrer to the other side of his mouth. "I was the sacrificial lamb, but if it'd gone to internal affairs, the whole thing woulda blown up in their faces, and they knew it. Also, I get the impression that there was pressure from the Home Office to back off."

"There was," Mycroft said.

"Thanks for that."

Mycroft gave him a sideways look. "I've done little to deserve praise."

"Praise, no. Gratitude, I'll go with." Lestrade gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Oh, wonderful, someone found the tourists on that bus you hijacked," John said on a sigh.

"They loved me," Sherlock said, his lips twitching.

"That they did." John grinned, unaccountably amused. "You've got quite the fanbase. It's terrifying."

Lestrade chuckled. "You've no idea." He picked up his case and flipped open one of the outer pockets. "These show up from time to time." He tossed John a badge, and John caught it in one hand.

He flipped it over, and and grinned. "You're kidding."

"Nope. They pop up all over the Met. No one knows who's making them." Grinning, Lestrade added, "Officially, you can get into a lot of trouble for getting caught with one, but the beat officers like to plant them on each other."

Sherlock glanced up. "What idiocy is this?"

John held it up. "I believe in Sherlock," he read off of the badge before he attached it to his lapel.

"Give me that," Sherlock said, holding out a hand.

"No, you're going to destroy it. I know that look."

"John-"

"No, Lestrade gave it to me. Get your own."

"Children..." Mycroft said, his voice drawn out and chiding. "There is work to do."

"Sorry, Mycroft," John said, trying and failing to repress a smile when Sherlock gave him a disdainful smirk.

"Besides, if anyone deserves a badge, it's me."

* * *

><p>"Mycroft?"<p>

Mycroft glanced in his direction, pausing just inside the door. The afternoon had stretched on far too long, and he'd finally had to excuse himself. Leaving Sherlock and Lestrade downstairs, he'd headed up, his car already en route. John would let him out and relock the door behind him. "John?"

"Why didn't you tell me? That Sherlock knew what you were doing with Moriarty?"

To his credit, Mycroft didn't make excuses, or pretend not to know what John was talking about. "Because you were still correct, John. It was my fault. No matter what Sherlock wanted, I should have known better than to allow him to manipulate me that way." He gave a faint smile, just the smallest curl of his lips. "I took the easy path, one that allowed me access to what I wanted, and told myself it was fine, because it was what Sherlock wanted."

"It's not your fault," John said. "We both know how stubborn he can be when he wants to be."

"That is true." Mycroft checked his watch. "But I knew, perhaps even more than you, how dangerous Moriarty was. I still chose to allow Sherlock his ill-advised plan. I didn't deflect the blame from myself, because I was to blame. Even if Sherlock didn't blame me, I blamed myself. It only made sense that you would blame me as well."

John gave a faint snort. "Martyrdom doesn't suit you. I would've thought you were incapable of shame. Or guilt."

"I do keep them well buried," Mycroft agreed. His mobile trilled, and he pulled it out. "Ah, my ride has arrived." He looked tired, worn, and John leaned a shoulder against the wall as he checked his possessions, straightening his suit coat. When he was ready, John opened the building door.

"Good day, John. I'll be in touch," he said, with a faint smile.

"I understand. Thanks, Mycroft." John offered his hand to Mycroft, who shook it. John, on an impulse, pulled Mycroft forward and gave him a one armed hug. His mouth next to Mycroft's ear, he whispered, "Keep me appr-"

There was a crack, and a thud, and John reacted without a thought. The door had flown back, open, and he grabbed hold of Mycroft, half dragging, half throwing him over the threshold and falling after him, hitting with a roll and kicking the door shut as he did, it was a bare protection, but it was something, and his foot was still on the panel when the second bullet ripped through, he felt the impact along his leg and shoved, hard, until the door snapped shut.

Mycroft was pulling out his mobile and John scrambled to his feet, grabbing Mycroft by the jacket, by the shirt, by the arm, his grip shifting as quickly as he could as he grabbed hold and yanked, pulling the older man to his feet and half shoving, half carrying him up the hall, his military training so ingrained that he had his pistol out and ready without even realizing it.

"Move!" he snapped, running now in a low crouch, putting as much distance as he could between the door and them, his body between Mycroft and the threat. "Go, move!"

There was the sound of pounding feet, coming from the basement flat, and John yelled, "Lestrade, stay down there, we're fine, it's okay!"

It wasn't enough to stop Sherlock, who slammed out of the flat door, Lestrade right behind him. Sherlock skidded to a stop, eyes wild, panicked, and Lestrade caught up to him in two long strides, his body crashing into Sherlock with police approved force, knocking the lankier man into the wall and twisting his arm up behind his back. "Get away from the door!" Lestrade snapped, even as a third shot impacted the front door. "Holmes, you cannot be here now!"

John met Sherlock's eyes, a secondary flicker of a glance, and something hot and hard and horrible beneath his breastbone dissolved. "It's all right, go," John said, and Sherlock went, more or less willingly, Lestrade shoving him along, back down the stairs, out of sight and there were sirens already on the street, sirens that Anthea or Mycroft's driver had to have something to do with.

Not taking any chances, John hustled Mycroft up the stairs to 221B, getting him into the living room, away from the doors and windows and up against the well abused wall that Sherlock had shot at repeatedly. "Stay there," John said, moving to crouch low against the wall, taking the minimal cover as he moved towards the still covered windows, gun held loosely in both hands, ready to use.

"Don't," Mycroft snapped, looking rumpled for the first time since John had met him. "That was a rifle shot."

"Three, actually, high powered, sniper," John agreed, craning his neck to catch a view of the opposite building through the slit in the curtains. "What have you been up to this week, Mycroft?"

"Nothing that merits this," Mycroft said, his voice placid. The sirens were getting louder. "Get away from the windows, John." He had his mobile out, and he was speaking to someone, probably Anthea, in low, urgent tones.

"Just a second." John scanned the street. The shooter would be long gone by now, he didn't doubt that. As soon as the sirens started, he would've been off, there was no point in sticking around and trying to get off additional shots, his prey had disappeared, and judging by the fact that all three shots had been aimed at their front door, he didn't seem interested in shooting random passersby.

"John, now," Mycroft snapped out, an order, now, from a man used to being obeyed. John considered the distance between the buildings on the far side of the street as a combination of unmarked black cars and police vehicles filled the pavement. Keeping to the shadows to the side of the window, John watched, waiting for any sign of movement, any sign that their shooter was still in place.

There were no further shots.

He set the safety on his Browning, lowering it in a smooth motion.

There was pounding on their door, and feet on the stairs, a lot of feet. John glanced at Mycroft. "Panic button, I take it?" He tucked his pistol away before they were interrupted.

"Yes. You'll have one by the end of the day." Mycroft turned his attention to the government agents that were suddenly everywhere at once, going through the rooms and checking the windows in a systematic manner. John stepped back, put his back against the wall, and tried to be invisible until Mycroft gestured him over.

"Do me a favor, John, and go check on the workmen in the basement flat," Mycroft said, his voice an undertone. He glanced at John, his eyes sharp. "Let's make certain they stay out of the way of the officers, shall we?"

John nodded. "Yeah, sure." Mycroft caught his wrist, his fingers squeezing tight, and John gave him a faint smile, knowing what he was trying to say. "I'll keep them out of the way and make sure the flat's locked."

"Thank you." Mycroft went back to lambasting some poor officer who had no idea what he'd just walked into, and John slipped off before anyone could intercept him.

Heading down the stairs, he bypassed a couple of officers that were heading up and checked the movement at the front door, where a few others were stretching caution tape. Making sure no one was looking in his direction, he checked the knob of 221C, not surprised to find it was locked. Fishing his keychain from his pocket, he found the new key Mycroft had given him, and unlocked the door, slipping through and re-locking it as quickly as possible.

"It's Watson," he called as he headed down the stairs, his hand on the grip of his gun.

"C'mon down." Lestrade's voice, calm and centered, but John wasn't surprised to find him standing just inside the door, blocking the way, his own gun drawn and at the ready. He made sure that it was only John standing there before he stepped out of the way.

Sherlock was pacing like a trapped animal, his whole body a whip of frustrated tension. "It's okay," John said, dropping his hand from his gun. "We're both fine. No one was hurt, as far as we can tell."

Sherlock turned on him, his lips peeled back in a snarl of rage, and John's head tipped forward, lips a flat line of displeasure, eyes disapproving. "We're fine," he said, because Sherlock was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling far too fast, far too sharp. He twisted on his heel, his body swinging back into the pacing, and John put an arm across his chest, stopping him. "We're fine," he repeated again. "Mycroft and I, we're both fine."

He pressed his palm, flat and still, against Sherlock's chest. "That must've scared the hell out of you," he said, and the words were addressed to Lestrade, but intended for Sherlock.

Lestrade gave him a sideways look of 'you think?' but when he spoke, it was with his usual humor. "I"d prefer it not happen again, Jesus. What the hell happened, John?"

"I'm not sure," John said, and Sherlock hadn't moved away, so he didn't drop his arm, letting Sherlock lean into the slight touch, the cant of his body against John's hand subtle, but there. "Mycroft's car was on its way, so we were saying good-bye on the stoop, and then-" His eyes narrowed. "I hugged him."

Both of the other men gave him a bewildered look, and John grinned. "Yeah, it was as weird as you were thinking. I wanted to ask him something and do it quietly, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. Just as I was leaning in, the first shot went off."

"You think he missed because you moved?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock pulled away from John's hand, going back to pacing. John leaned against the wall, letting him do it. He understood fear, and he understood the frustration of forced inactivity. "I don't know," he admitted to Lestrade. "It seems that way, but..." His lips pursed, he shook his head.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Why three shots? The door was closed, and we were behind it by the time he got the second one off. There was a slim chance he'd hit us through the door, but most snipers would just cut their losses and get the hell out of there at that point. The third shot was just stupid."

"A lousy sniper?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock snorted. "Who'd send a lousy sniper after Mycroft?"

"Unprofessional or easily panicked?" John asked, not sure about that, either. "An amateur?"

"Most of the general population has no idea that Mycroft exists, let alone how important he is," Sherlock snapped. "He's not the sort to attract amateur attention. He's barely the sort to attract international assassin attention."

"This guy wasn't a pro, or the first shot wouldn't have missed." John shook his head. "He wouldn't have taken it."

"I need the crime scene," Sherlock said, and Lestrade and John turned on him as one. He glared at them. "I need the crime scene," he repeated.

"No," John said.

"Sherlock, be reasonable, you can't just go poking your nose into this, you're not even supposed to be alive, you great idiot." Lestrade pushed a hand through his hair. "Listen, I'll get you the information you need, you know I will. I've still got access, and friends, we'll figure out a way to get you what you need."

"Between him and Mycroft, we'll get you everything you need," John agreed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John reached up, putting a palm flat on Sherlock's chest, right over the breastbone. "You are not sneaking in there, Sherlock."

"Not now," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, and John's hand clutched into a fist, snagging Sherlock's shirt in his fingers. "After it gets dark and the officers leave, there's-"

"No," John said, his voice soft and firm. "Sherlock, don't do this to me." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade's eyebrows twitch up, but he didn't have time to deal with that right now. Sherlock's mouth opened, and John glared at him. "I can't stop you," he said, lips tight, "but I do not need you to get hurt or discovered right now, Sherlock."

"Tonight-"

"No," Lestrade and John said at once.

John's mobile trilled in his pocket, and he fished it out, not at all surprised to see Mycroft's name on the readout. "Lestrade, if he moves, handcuff him," John snapped, even as he connected the line.

"I'd like to see him try," Sherlock said, and Lestrade grinned at him, full of teeth and threat.

"You wanna go, really? 'Cause I'd enjoy that probably more than is healthy or sane."

John shook his head at them. "Mycroft?"

"Is everything under control?"

"As much as it could be. Obviously, he wants to go check out the scene," John said, rubbing his forehead.

There was a faint sigh. "Let me speak to him, please."

John turned to Sherlock, holding up the phone. "Here," he said, and Sherlock gave the phone a dirty look. John pursed his lips, and gave him a glare. With a sigh, Sherlock took it.

"What is it?" he snapped into the receiver, and John sighed.

Lestrade's lips were twitching. John pushed a hand through his hair, feeling his cheeks heat. "So, uh," he started, and Greg held up a hand.

"You're the bravest man I've ever met," Lestrade said with a warm smile. He cleared his throat. "Can't say I'm surprised."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know, everyone thought-"

"That you were the best thing to ever happen to him?" Lestrade said, clapping him on the back. "Yeah, everyone knows that."

And all of a sudden, Sherlock was between them, knocking Lestrade's hand away without even pausing in his bickering with Mycroft. Leaning against John's shoulder, he leveled a narrow eyed look in Greg's direction, and Lestrade held up his hands in a placating gesture. The fact that he was visibly struggling not to laugh did not help the situation.

John felt his cheeks get even redder, but he just leaned into Sherlock's body.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock finally said, rolling his eyes. His face unhappy, he held the mobile out to John. "He wants to speak to you again."

John took it. "How did you-"

"I have his Stradivarius," Mycroft said, his voice calm. "And I will not hesitate to use it against him."

John winced. "Ah, I see."

"And I promised him that you'd go on his behalf."

"All right." John blinked. "Wait, what?" He jerked his head around and found Sherlock staring at him with an expectant look on his face. "Now, wait a minute-"

"It's the perfect solution," Sherlock said, "you know what I need to see-"

"He'll be out of sight, and if you don't agree, you know he'll find some way around this," Mycroft said in his ear.

"I can trust you to look for the right information-"

"-you won't get into a fight with the officers in charge-"

"-without making a mess of everything-"

"Stop it, both of you!" John burst out. "It is not fair when you gang up on me!"

Both of the Holmes boys went silent, and John took a deep breath. "Right. Fine. I'll do this." He rushed on, forestalling anything else. "If! If you both agree to stay here. Both of you." He stared into Sherlock's eyes. "Both of you," he repeated.

"Of course," Mycroft said.

John stared at Sherlock. "Stay here. With Lestrade," he said, his voice gentle. "No one's after me, no one would think it strange if Mycroft sent me to do his legwork. You know this. I'll be in the midst of a dozen officers. I need you to stay here."

Sherlock's jaw got tight, but he nodded. "Fine."

"Thank you." And since Lestrade was looking very intently at the covered windows, John reached up and kissed Sherlock's mouth. "I'll be back soon."

Sherlock smiled with gritted teeth. "That would be appreciated."

* * *

><p>DI Dimmock greeted John with a polite smile and a handshake. "So, you're branching out into Secret Service work now?"<p>

John smiled back. "No, I was with Mycroft when the shooting happened. His people aren't letting him come crashing over here to make a mess of things, so he's sent me along." He shrugged. "He can be a bit overbearing."

"I can't imagine." Dimmock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, about Sherlock," he said, his voice an undertone. He glanced at John, and his eyes were dark. "I lost one of my partners that way, once. It's a hard thing, in this line of work."

John nodded, with a faint smile. "I'm still angry with him," he said at last.

"Yeah, that doesn't really go away. Or, it hasn't for me." Dimmock nodded at the small flat. "Do me a favor and stay out of the way, if you can. Not all that much to see, but the techs are still-"

"I'm just going to get an overview before I get out of here," John agreed. "I'm sure Mycroft can request the files if he wants something more in-depth."

Dimmock gave a bitter little smile. "I do not doubt that at all." He paused, considering John. "Does he come to visit you often?"

"What, here? No." John pushed a hand through his hair. "For that matter, I haven't been living here. Since Sherlock-" He stopped, swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in his throat. "I took another flat. But I guess that Mycroft's still been paying the rent, which I only realized yesterday. He might've been coming by regularly, but not to see me."

It was good cover, actually. Mycroft certainly wasn't known for being sentimental, but he wouldn't be the first grieving family member to spend time in their dead loved one's home.

Nodding, Dimmock glanced around the flat. "Our shooter's been here for a while. The landlord says the place has been vacant for a couple of months; I guess the rent he's asking is too high for the space. Signs of occupation, but the place has been scrubbed. No fingerprints, no DNA yet." He hooked a thumb towards the front window. "That'd be our only really weird element."

Following the gesture, John stepped around a couple of evidence techs, his blue paper booties scrunching on the wooden floors. The window looked over the street, providing a perfect line of sight for 221 Baker, the door an easy target from this distance and angle. John crouched down, putting himself at the right height for their sniper.

Five bullets, unused and gleaming bronze-gold in the afternoon light, were lined up on the wooden windowsill. They had been placed in a neat row, each one lined up with the edge, equidistant apart, and a sequence of numbers was written on each one in black felt-tip marker. Tilting his head to the side, John studied the numbers. "I take it we don't know what these are?" he asked Dimmock, gesturing at the bullets.

"No. Three shots fired, and recovered, and these were clearly not intended to be used."

"They were meant to be discovered after the shooting." John frowned at the numbers, wondering why they felt familiar.

"Looks like. It's the only thing that's been left behind," Dimmock said. "The place might as well have been empty, other than that."

John straightened up, glancing around, and now that he was away from the open window, his nose twitched. "Was the last occupant a smoker?"

"No. Landlord's got a pretty strict no-smoking rule, another reason why this place is likely still on the market. So yeah, our sniper's a smoker, but we haven't recovered anything, butts or ash, to pull DNA off of. He was meticulous."

"Careful. A pro." Which made the lousy shooting even more curious. John stared out the window, and even from this angle, the shot at the front door was an easy one. The bulk of their bodies would've made an easy shot, the fact that neither one of them had been hit was just unbelievable.

Unless he wasn't really trying to hit them.

He rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist, trying to ignore the way it was itching. "Does the cigarette smoke smell familiar to you?" he asked Dimmock.

Dimmock shrugged. "I'm not a smoker, Watson, all cigarette smoke smells the same to me. Horrible."

John grinned. "Yeah, I've never been much of one for the habit myself, but enough people smoke in the army that-" He froze, his brain snapping into place with stunning speed.

Dimmock didn't seem to notice that he hadn't finished the sentence. "I suppose if people are shooting at you, then lung cancer's not so much an issue, is it?"

"Not so much, no," John agreed, his mind racing. It couldn't be. Why. Why would that- He gave a sharp shake of his head. "Okay if I take a picture of the bullets?" he asked Dimmock.

"My orders are that you're acting on behalf of the Home Office, so you get to do what you like, as long as you don't contaminate the scene," Dimmock said. One of the techs appeared at his elbow, and he nodded at John. "Let me know if you see anything we should note, right?"

"Of course." John waited until the officer finished the official photographs before he leaned in with his mobile and took a quick shot of the bullets, turning it sideways to make sure the numbers were legible. "Coordinates," he said under his breath.

Five bullets with coordinates written on them. That's why the numbers seemed familiar. Coordinates for the same area of Afghanistan where John had been, he'd seen enough maps, enough troop movements, enough air strikes called in to make them as familiar as a friend's phone number.

He suddenly had a very bad feeling that Mycroft hadn't been the intended target at all.


End file.
